Monster
by Aalon
Summary: This is an AU take on the disappearance of Richard Castle before his wedding at the end of Season 6, leading into Season 7. As the title indicates, this is a rather dark tale with strong themes, so please be forewarned.
1. Chapter 1

**Monster: Chapter 1**

**A/N:** This is an AU take on the disappearance of Richard Castle before his wedding at the end of Season 6, leading into Season 7. As the title indicates, this is a rather dark tale, so please be forewarned. I considered rating this M (as I did Magic, but got considerable flack from those who read it expecting a bit of a sex-fest).

I just want to throw out a different take on what might have happened to Castle, focusing on three things: What did Castle actually experience through during that missing time? Why was he taken in the first place? And finally, how far will Kate Beckett go to get him back? As always, thanks to all of you who read my stories.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Hamptons, May 13, 2014**_

Kate Beckett stands in a torn wedding dress, angry tears staining her cheeks. For the past half hour, she has watched what should be the most beautiful day of her life – so far – reduced to rubble. It is fitting that she stands next to the burned out shell of Castle's car, staring ahead. Her fears, her sadness, the utter shock has been now replaced by a simmering fury.

The firefighters have done their job, putting out the flames. Her first clue that he isn't here is the smell. She stands within feet of the destroyed vehicle, and the smell of burned flesh should be pungent in the air. But that distinctive odor is absent. Her heart leaps for a moment, and her faith is rewarded when she peers inside and sees the empty front seat. A second glance shows no burned corpse in the backseat as well. A quick check shows no one in the trunk. No stone will be left unturned.

She half smiles, her confidence growing. He's not here. He's gone. Then it hits her and her smile fades, the anger intensifies, and a worry that only love can birth begins to set in.

He is gone.

_**Late evening in Chesapeake Bay on a tiny isolated island offshore from Tangier Island, May 13, 2014**_

There is a distinctive taste in Richard Castle's mouth as he awakens, his head groggy and spinning. He blinks a few times, trying to get his bearings. It is very dark, and he is lying on a twin bed. He slowly raises himself up to a sitting motion, placing his feet on the ground. Looking at his legs, his heart begins to race. His pants are gone, replaced with bright orange pants, and a matching bright orange button up shirt. It immediately reminds him of a prisoner's outfit.

"_God, am I in jail?"_ he thinks to himself, wondering just what in the hell has happened to him. The dual itching and stinging still resident on his neck causes him to instinctively reach for the back of his neck.

"_There was a needle,"_ he remembers suddenly, as his memories now slowly come into focus. He remembers talking on the phone to Kate and . . .

"Kate," he exclaims out loud, and now his eyes widen, as full panic finally sets in. He was supposed to get married. Married to the woman he had chased for six long years. Obstacle after obstacle they have overcome, and now within minutes – within half an hour of their wedding – this happens? But what is _'this'_? Where is he? Where is Kate? Is she all right? Clearly someone has attacked him. Did they attack Kate also?

Then he thinks of his daughter. Is Alexis safe? The thoughts begin to overwhelm him.

"Where in the hell am I?" he says aloud. Now fully awake, his memories are no longer cloudy. He remembers the black car speeding up behind him, tinted windows blocking his assailants. The offending car continued bearing down on him as he hung up his phone call with Kate.

"_I told her twenty minutes,"_ he recalls and checks his watch. No watch. They've taken it. Whoever 'they' are.

The car had caught up to him and bumped him off the road into a ditch. He had slammed his car to a stop, keeping control of the vehicle for the most part, but hitting his head on the driver's side window had left him disoriented. He vaguely remembers the car doors opening and hands pulling him out of the car, roughly. A prick of a needle to the neck turned out the lights as darkness consumed him.

Now awake, he works his tongue around in his mouth. It is dry, and he is thirsty. He glances around. There are no bars, so he quickly realizes he is not in a cell, not in jail. He now quickly reconsiders that vague definition as he notices his surroundings.

He is in a one room building, that much is for certain. The room – the entire building, that is – can't be more than twenty feet by twenty feet. He stands now, and begins to do an inspection, the fear inside him pinching his chest, growing inch by inch with each step he takes. He goes along each wall before confirming his fear.

No power. No light switches. No electricity. No air conditioning. There is a single window that lets light in from outside, and thankfully there is a full moon tonight, bathing the room in a soft glow. A single toilet sits in one corner, so obviously there is plumbing, but no sink anywhere. The only water sits in the toilet bowl, and he is parched.

"_Right the first time,"_ he thinks to himself, and then says out loud, "This_ is_ a jail."

Hygiene can be damned at this particular point, as his dry tongue and scratching throat win out, as he drops to a knee, and sticks his hand into the toilet. The water is clear, and smells fine. He brings the liquid to his lips and quickly drinks, making a loud slurping sound. Satisfied that the water is at least drinkable – for toilet water, that is – he quickly grabs a few more handfuls, taking in the life-giving water and licks his lips when he is finally sated.

He stands upright again, staring down at the toilet, suddenly fighting the urge to retch the water back into the bowl. His heart continues to race, as he realizes what he has just done, and this only minutes into what now can only be considered an incarceration.

He continues his walk of discovery, realizing there are no cabinets, no closets. Only the toilet and the twin bed. Nothing more.

Scratch that. There is a small box that sits in the corner opposite the toilet. He walks over to the box, picking it up. It is of noticeable weight, maybe thirty to forty pounds. It is too dark to tell what is inside, so he brings it over toward the single window and opens the box. Inside are roughly three dozen cans of food. Beans, primarily, but as he pulls them out, one by one, he sees a few cans of beef stew. Each can has a pop top. A single plastic spoon sits at the bottom of the food box, along with a bottle of vitamins. His brow furls, confused now.

Whoever his captor is, obviously they want him alive. He's been given enough food and vitamins to keep him alive for a short period of time. But he also knows this food isn't an awful lot, it can run out in a week or more if he doesn't discipline himself. He does the quick math. 36 days of food if he limits himself to one can per day, 18 days of food if he splurges and opts for one in the morning and one in the evening.

"I'll figure that out later," he thinks to himself. For now, he has food, and . . . and water, yeah.

He takes a final glance around the room and then looks at the door.

"_Surely it can't be that simple,"_ he muses to himself. Yet he is pleasantly surprised when he turns the nob and the door opens. It's dark, but he quickly lets his eyes adjust, once again thankful for a full moon on this cloudless evening. He quickly makes out the barbed wire fence that surrounds his small cabin. He estimates roughly fifty feet from the cabin to the fence. He covers the distance quickly, and finds himself standing next to a fence that stands some twelve feet off the ground, barbed wire rows every three vertical inches. He quickly scans the perimeter outside the fence, and notices a second fence of equal height barely a foot beyond the first fence. Someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to keep him in.

Or, to keep something out!

That thought petrifies him, as he hears the sound of night wildlife beyond the perimeter, and he unconsciously takes a few quick steps backward, toward the cabin. He glances out to the adjacent fence side, and chuckles at fate's irony. It's been years since he has seen one of these. He walks to the small structure, confirming that it is an old-fashioned, hand pump connected to a small well. Hanging on the pump handle is a small bucket.

Water.

"Better than toilet water," he muses aloud, working the pump and verifying that it actually works, as water comes out of the small spicket, into the bucket he has placed below. He sticks his hand in, tasting the water and nods his head. Drinking and bathing water, he assumes, to go along with the canned food and the toilet, and the small bed.

"Not exactly something I will use my Marriott points for," he smirks to himself, trying to find a bit of humor to break the monotonous fright that has set in.

He continues to check out the outer surroundings, and notices the helipad landing area.

"_So that's how I got here,"_ he realizes, now also realizing that escape is going to be pretty difficult, to say the least. He decides that he will likely get a visitor from time to time, if nothing else to replenish the canned goods. He reflects again that he is alive.

"If they wanted me dead, I'd be dead instead of here," he says out loud, while again wondering just who 'they' could be. Who has he pissed off so thoroughly that they would resort to something like this? The question immediately frightens him, as he considers how many people he and Kate have put away. The list could be endless.

Kate.

He glances up at the night sky and thinks of her. He feels the tears – tears of frustration – as they begin to pool in his eyes. He thinks of his wedding again, now realizing for the first time that he may never see his bride-to-be again. He doesn't want to be pessimistic, but it is clear that someone went to a lot of trouble to do this. Someone with a lot of money, and a lot of means. Then it hits him that not only does he not know where he is, but he realizes that Kate cannot possibly have any idea what has happened to him. Unless whoever has done this sends her a ransom note. For now, that's the best he can hope for. He has plenty of money, and she knows how to access it.

If there is no ransom note, however, Kate will never figure this out. If they cleared the car accident scene, then she would have no idea where to even start. It would appear that he simply left her at the alter . . . before they could even get to the alter. Was that the plan?

"_God, she is probably devastated,"_ he thinks to himself. Not out of arrogance or pride, but just realizing that – once again – someone of value that she loves has been taken away from his favorite detective. The frustration becomes too much as Richard Castle is overcome with grief, his hot tears finally spilling. In his grief, he lets out a primal scream to the heavens, his arms above his head, shaking his fists at the non-offending sky.

The guttural response – a loud roaring, growl from beyond the protective and confining fence – embeds a fear that he has never known inside the novelist, sending him running – sprinting – the final forty feet or so into the cabin, slamming the door. His breathing is ragged and accelerated, and he realizes he needs to tone it down, or he's going to hyperventilate.

"What in the hell was that?" he wonders aloud, his heart still jackhammering inside his chest. Out of a misplaced sense of safety, he sits with his back against the door, as if that will keep anything out. Minutes later, as his heartbeat finally slows, he has to chuckle again at himself.

"Barbed wire fence, you idiot," he says to himself. "Nothing is getting in here unless it can fly." Even his imagination cannot conjure up flying dinosaurs, so he knows he isn't on some prehistoric island.

"An island," he wonders. He hopes beyond hope that he is not on an island. At some point, he is confident he is going to figure out a way over or through, or even below that damn fence. But what is on the other side of it that he heard. And if he is surrounded by water . . . well then, that could be game over.

He closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down. He mentally pulls the dedication from the novel, Wild Storm, into his mind. Five hundred signings was the goal, before taking off for the honeymoon. He sees – in his mind - the words he penned in the pages, dedicated to the woman he loves.

'_To My Always, You Make Saving the World Magical'_

He smiles, trying to remain calm amid the frightening scenario that unfolds before him. He and the detective have been in some pickles before.

He and Kate sit freezing in a trailer container.

They are chained and battling a tiger, for crying out loud.

They stand in front of a dirty bomb, seeing the final seconds tick down.

She lies in the grass, bleeding out in front of him.

She stands on a time bomb, and they stare at one another, amid another countdown.

Yeah, they've been through the ringer, but nothing quite like this. It suddenly dawns on him – in each of those situations, they thought that they were facing the end. They are going to freeze to death. They are going to be eaten alive. They are going to go up in a ball of flames. She's is going to bleed to death. In each of those scenarios, they were certain that was it. Death was upon them.

In each of those scenarios, they were wrong. The revelation gives him a jolt of strength, an injection of resolve. He has been in life-or-death situations before – many times – and won.

He cocks his head, not sure of what he is hearing. He closes his eyes again, remaining perfectly still. His keen ears do not deceive him.

Helicopter blades. Approaching fast.

He stands quickly, and runs to the door, opening it, and flashing out into the enclosed yard, waiting to greet the chopper as it lands at the helipad. Instead, the aircraft hovers just beyond the fence, some six to eight feet off the ground. Castle idly wonders what is happening. Anyone who gets out isn't going to be able to get past the fence. A puzzled look stays on his face as the craft continues to hover above the ground.

"Why aren't they landing?" he wonders aloud. His question is answered quickly and decisively, as a man is suddenly thrown from the chopper, which quickly rises into the sky and banks away from the enclosed encampment.

"Don't leave me!" the man screams at the departing aircraft, watching it clear the trees and quickly bank out of sight.

"Hello," Castle yells to the man on the other side. "Hello!"

"Who in the hell are you?" the man asked, agitated and excited.

"My name is Richard Castle," Castle responds. "I'm a prisoner here."

"Looks like we both are," the man replies, disgustedly. "Think I twisted my damn ankle when the bastards tossed me out," he continues, sitting on the ground as he rubs his ankle.

The sudden roar, the sheer volume causes Castle's knees to turn to jelly, and his legs give way. He drops to the ground, and even in the relative darkness, bathed only by the moonlight, he sees the fear in the eyes of the man across from him, less than twenty feet away.

The noise – clearly an animal – is closer now – much closer, and the unfortunate man knows that his only chance for survival lies in his ability to scale over or through the imposing fence. He makes his way, hobbling, to the fence, afraid to place his hands on the dangerous barbed wire. His mind, however, is made up for him when he turns and sees the incredibly large lion clear the trees behind him.

"God in heaven, where am I?" Castle wonders in fear, as the more unfortunate man on the wrong side of the fence jumps upward, screaming as the barbed thorns bite into his flesh.

"Help me!" the man screams. "Let me in! Please, I beg of you –"

"I don't know how!" an equally frightened Richard Castle screams back, exasperated at his lack of options. "Is there a gate anywhere?"

"How the hell should I know!" the man replies, his voice rising even higher as his blood drips from his hands, feet, legs – every part making contact with the fence.

"I don't –"

A second lion appears in the distance as the first beast launches itself airborne, pulling the screaming man down off the fence, the barbed wire tearing flesh from his face and chest and arms along the way. His screams pepper the night as the large beast drags him away into the trees, growing louder and more fearful. Castle can only watch, his hands over his ears, with hot tears of frustration exploding down his cheeks.

"Noooooo!" Castle screams has he hears the screams of the unfortunate man suddenly stop – leaving only the rustling and the growling of the great beasts as they feast on their catch.

"Oh God, oh dear God," he cries over and over, as he runs – stumbling – back to the cabin, slamming the door shut, and moving the twin bed in front of the door, upright. Logical or not, he wants as much between himself and the hungry lions as possible.

He throws himself to the ground against the wall opposite the door, and places his hands over his ears once again, closing his eyes. The man's screams – though long extinguished - still echo in his ears, as Castle clenches his eyes tighter, forcing the image of Kate Beckett into his mind. He tries to picture her in the wedding dress he didn't see. He tries to picture the vows they didn't say. His breath raging out of control, coming rapidly, her face is the last thing he sees before the blessed unconsciousness takes him into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Monster: Chapter 2**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Hamptons, Still Late Evening of May 13, 2014**_

"_We open tonight's broadcast with a sad story this evening from The Hamptons. Tragedy struck this afternoon when noted New York author Richard Castle mysteriously disappeared after a violent car accident. Authorities found the burned remains of Mr. Castle's car after being called onto the scene by NYPD Detective Kate Beckett, the author's fiancée. No body was found at the scene, and if there are any clues as to Mr. Castle's whereabouts, the NYPD has put the clamps on any outgoing information at this time. Sadly, Mr. Castle and Ms. Beckett were scheduled to marry this evening at a private ceremony in the Hamptons. Some say this may just be a case of a jittery groom. Most, however, are considering this a criminal investigation. The NYPD is requesting that anyone with any information on the missing novelist please come forward, by calling the number listed below."_

Kate Beckett sits upright in bed – his bed – their bed – the bed that was supposed to usher in a new life for the long-time, star-crossed couple. Her legs are drawn up, with her pillow lying in her lap. She clicks the OFF button on the television remote control, and now can only hear the silence in the bedroom. Their bedroom. Martha is down the hall in her room while Alexis down the hall in the opposite direction, in her room as well. Both have given her space for the past half hour after she told them she was going to bed. Detective Javier Esposito remained in the Hamptons is staying downstairs in the guest room.

Esposito has stayed for two reasons. First, obviously is to help his friend, to be here for her. Today was the worst buckshot to the chest she has faced yet, and that is saying something for those who know Katherine Beckett. Second, however, is to be here in case 'the call' comes. Surely there is going to be a ransom call. He wants to be here for that. For her.

Detective Kevin Ryan reluctantly headed back into the city earlier with wife, Jenny. He will run the point from the 12th Precinct offices on the investigation – beginning tomorrow – in case any new information filters in there.

The night is quiet, thankfully, finally allowing Kate the solitude she desperately needs right now. Tonight was supposed to be something magical. It has turned into something macabre, right out of a horror film. She draws her legs closer to her chin, feeling her body shaking, and allows herself to fall sideways on the bed, her tears and sobs finally exploding. Her body ebbs and flows with her cries, as she tries to muffle her sobs into the pillow. It doesn't work.

"Dammit, God," she mutters into her pillow, pounding on the bedsheets. "How could you!" she screams into the soft armful of fluff she holds on to. "Mom wasn't enough?" she asks the heavens, as she rolls onto her back, clutching the pillow back to her chest. "You had to take him, too, didn't you!" she screams at the ceiling, allowing her wailings to overtake her.

"I'm sorry, God," she whimpers, as she curls up into a fetal position, the pillow now her only comfort. "I'm sorry. Bring him back to me, God. Please, I beg you . . ."

Outside her door sits Javier Esposito, hot tears now burning his eyes and chasing down his cheeks, as he listens to the woman he considers his sister, his family, burn herself out. And there's not a damn thing he can do about it. He stands, quickly, ready to knock and walk in through the door when he hears his name being whispered.

"Javier!" Martha Rodgers whispers as loud as she can to get his attention. His head whips quickly to the left, as he sees the older red-haired woman shake her head.

"Leave her be, Detective Esposito," Martha tells him. The detective takes in the woman's appearance. Her voice is strong and brave. But the redness and wetness in her eyes belies the courageous front she wears.

"She has had enough for one day," Martha continues. "We all have. Please. Go get some rest. And pray that we hear something tomorrow. Something good."

She nods her head, and takes her leave, walking back into her bedroom. He considers her words, looks at the door, and then nods his head in agreement. Seconds later he is at the staircase, making his way down the steps and toward the guest room. He pulls up Ryan's contact information and punches SEND as he walks. Seconds later, his efforts are rewarded.

"Hey Javi," Ryan answers.

"Bro," Esposito responds. "Anything?"

"Nothing," Ryan replies, his frustration showing. "Not a damn thing. It's like he disappeared into thin air."

"Well, we both know that's impossible," Esposito counters. "Get some sleep, bro. We will start again in the morning."

"How's Beckett doing?" Ryan asks. It's a stupid question, he knows, but he has to ask it, nevertheless.

"How the fuck do you _think_ she is doing, man!" Esposito bursts out, immediately regretting exploding on his friend. "I'm sorry, bro. I'm sorry. It's just –"

"No problem, Javi," Kevin says, giving his friend a pass. "I understand. Believe me I do. Probably sleeping on the couch tonight myself. Had a similar conversation with Jenny just a few minutes ago, in fact."

"Yeah, I can imagine. I will call tomorrow morning. You call if you hear anything first."

"Yeah, okay. G'nite Javi," Ryan says as he clicks off.

Esposito stares at his phone, and then walks into the guest room. He tosses the phone onto the guest bed, kicks his shoes off, and takes his socks off. A minute later he stands naked in the shower, hoping to drown the worst day he can remember since . . . since Kate Beckett was shot. He lowers his head into the hot spray, allowing the shower to wash away the dirt, the grime, and the tears.

_**Day 2: Captivity on an isolated island offshore from Tangier Island, May 14, 2014**_

The sweat that has drenched his entire body awakens Richard Castle. He has no idea what time it is, but he knows it is morning. Or at least it is the next day. He has no idea how long he has slept. He has no watch. No phone. Nothing to keep track of the days or hours he has been here.

It strikes him that if he were writing a novel, he would have the captive awaken with slight and temporary confusion, not initially realizing where he is, not remembering what has happened. Just for a moment, there would be that quick 'where am I' moment.

Reality, however, as he is finding out this morning, is nothing like he would write it. Nothing like it at all.

From the very second he is awake, he knows _exactly_ where he is. Well, not exactly. What city, state, town, country – hell, he has no idea. But he knows he is still in the cabin. He also knows it is already hot as hades here in the cabin. There is no electricity, no air conditioning. His body is soaked. His orange pants and shirt are soaked.

"Won't be sleeping in these anymore," he muses to himself, as he runs his hand through his hair. "Got to cool off, get cool," he tells himself. As he stands, he swoons for a second, realizing how hungry he is. He didn't eat at all yesterday or last night. The sounds of screaming echoed in his ears long after the hungry lions had finished their meal last night. Richard Castle's appetite had left quickly and never returned.

Now, however, this morning, he is famished. He glances over at the box now under the window, which contains his food.

"Rations is more like it," he grumbles to himself, and then quickly chides himself. He knows he is going to have to stay positive. He has to stay frosty. A man could quickly lose his mind – and any chance of escape – if he doesn't stay positive. And escape he will. There is no way he is going to spend the rest of his life on this hell hole. He isn't going to die here. Through his tears of frustration and fear last night as he finally fell asleep with Kate Beckett's face imprinted on his mind, he had promised himself this. He would not die here.

"First things first," he tells himself as he walks to the single toilet and relieves himself. He sees the rolls of toilet paper that he missed in the darkness last night.

"_Thank God for small favors," _he thinks to himself. This would really get drastic if he didn't have this little treasure of white tissues.

Finishing, he opens the door slowly to the outside. His brain, the logical portion, tells him that he has nothing to worry about. There is no way the lions are going to get through two, tall twin fences, each fortified with barbed wire strands. His brain tells him this. But the screams from last night still call to him, telling him a very different story.

He takes a few slow, careful steps – almost trying to remain as quiet as possible. Bravery comes with each step, and before long he is taking longer, more comfortable strides, investigating the surrounding area around the cabin. He is starting to come to grips with the idea that this cabin – living in captivity – may be his home for quite some time.

He has noted the position of the sun, still rising in the sky. Now, at least he knows directions. The sun is rising in the east. He continues to search the grounds, finally finding what he is looking for. A small stone, no more than an inch in diameter. It looks like the entire area has been stripped clean of anything that could reasonably be used as a weapon. Somehow, this little guy has been missed. He walks to the outer wall facing the rising sun, and, using the stone, carves a large 'E' into the outside stone wall.

Walking around the cabin to the opposite wall, he carves a large 'W' into that outside wall. Satisfied, he walks to the remaining two walls, carving in 'S' and 'N', respectively. Now he knows directions. It's a small point, but he will take every small victory he can find here. And this is one. Every piece of information he gleams is one more than his captors want him to have.

He holds no illusion to his plight this morning. He is a captive, for certain. He has seen no warden, no guards – save the hungry duo on the other side of the fence. He considers the helicopter last night, that just happened to appear after he had regained consciousness. Knowing he has been drugged, he determines that it would have been easy for them to calculate roughly when he would awaken. They made sure he was awake for the show.

The show was a warning to him - of this much he is certain. Still, he does what every prisoner does. He paces his cell. In this case, his cell isn't some ten by ten small room. It's a twenty by twenty cabin in the middle of a small field, made of dirt for the most part. He walks along the edge of the barbed wire fence, until he realizes he has made two revolutions already. He finds no weakness in the fence. The observation both frightens and exhilarates him.

It means he probably can't get out, but also means those things out there probably can't get in. It's an interesting trade-off.

He makes his way to the water well, with the manual hand-pump he noticed last night. Glancing down, he guesses the well goes at least thirty feet deep and is – thankfully – filled with water. He takes his shirt off, then after a few seconds, decides to take his pants off as well. He glances down at the black boxer underwear that he wears.

"They changed my underwear?" he muses out loud. He strips out of the boxers as well, now standing naked in the . . . yeah, it can be called a small compound. He vaguely wonders about prisoners of war he has met and interviewed years ago for one of his early Derek Storm novels, never dreaming he would one day be in a similar situation.

He grabs the bucket and hand-pumps water into the bucket until it is filled to the brim. He places his hands in the bucket, grabbing a handful and splashing it across his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He grabs another handful and sloshes it into his mouth, gargling and spitting the liquid onto the dirt ground. Finally he grabs the entire bucket and turns it upside down on top of his head, soaking himself. He places the bucket on the ground under the spicket, and pumps another bucketful of water into the pail. He dumps this second bucket on top of his head as well.

Now, somewhat refreshed, he takes one more bucketful of water, and drops all of his clothes - the pants, shirt and boxers – into the bucket, and hand washes the items. He takes the bucket to the edge of the barbed wire fence, and rings out each item, placing them on the sharp edges of the fence to hang dry. He glances out into the brush and trees beyond the fence. He can hear the sounds of nature, but there is no trace or hint of the large killing beasts from last night.

He doesn't know an awful lot about lions, but he does remember a Discovery Channel special he watched with Alexis where they mentioned that male lions can sleep 18 to 20 hours a day, the females slightly less. He knows they sleep after a big meal, and so the likelihood of them making an appearance until later tonight is . . . well, it would be rare, he knows. For a moment, a shudder of fright overtakes him, knowing that lions can go days without feeding after a large meal. But he thinks about their next large meal. Where will it come from?

He nods his head, pulling himself out of his grizzly thoughts, while gazing at his tacky, loud clothing. Without warning, he turns back to the open field. He drops to the ground, and begins to do push-ups. With each push-up, he counts with the same cadence.

Up. "Find me, Kate."

Down. "Don't give up, Kate."

Up. "Find me, Kate."

Down. "Don't give up Kate."

Up . . .

_**Day 2: At the 12**__**th**__** Precinct in New York City, 1 p.m. on May 14, 2014**_

Kate Beckett walks into the 12th Precinct, feeling every eye follow her to her desk. She doesn't belong here. She's not supposed to be here. Everyone knows it. And every look, every glance, is a reminder to her of this.

She decided earlier this morning that the last place she wanted to stay was in the Hamptons. The police there will get in touch with her if anything is needed. She grabbed Javier, Martha and Alexis the first thing this morning and drove them back to the city with her. She had correctly assumed that they wanted to get the hell out of dodge as well. Right now, their Hamptons retreat is anything but the peaceful getaway that it is supposed to be. Right now, it is a reminder of everything – everyone – they have lost.

She is grateful to see Kevin Ryan at his desk, along with Esposito. She had dropped him off at the front door late this morning when they arrived back into the city, before heading to Castle's loft, where she dropped off his mother and daughter, promising to keep them updated. They, in turn, promised to contact her immediately if they hear anything.

"So, what do we know?" she asks her two long-time friends, as Captain Victoria Gates makes her way out of her office to greet her detectives.

"Kate – I am so sorry," Gates tells her, with genuine sadness showing on her face.

"Yeah, me, too," Kate replies, "but not as sorry as someone is going to be. Now what do we know?" she asks again, this time more forcefully.

Gates nods in understanding. The woman, her detective, is all business this morning. Good. She is in the proper frame of mind – angry and focused. She will need to be both.

"Not a thing, Beckett," Esposito answers, glancing at Kevin Ryan who has just given him an update minutes before.

"Look guys, he can't just have disappeared into thin air," Kate tells the room at large. "Someone saw something. A passerby. Someone had to see something," she repeats with frustration.

"So far no witnesses have come forward, Kate," Ryan tells her, trying to make the conversation as personal as possible. He knows this isn't going to be a clinical, emotionally detached Beckett they are dealing with. Not for this case – no matter how much she tries.

"And no ransom note," Esposito adds, just as frustrated. "No letter, no audio tape, no video, no You-Tube, not even a damn Vine. Nothing!"

"Well, someone took him," Kate says angrily. "At some point, they have to reach out. They took him for a reason. And we all know, usually that reason is money."

"Uh . . . Beckett . . . Kate," Esposito asks, gingerly. "Does Castle have as much money as we all have always kind of . . . assumed that he –"

"He has more than enough," she interrupts. "Whoever took him will know this. He is recognizable, and the news stations have been flooding his picture constantly since last night."

Captain Gates has been taking in the exchange, and – hating to be the negative one – has hesitated to ask the question. Now, she decides, she can wait no longer.

"Are we sure . . . are we absolutely certain that Mr. Castle didn't . . . that he . . ."

"Are we certain that he what, sir?" Kate asks, clearly agitated at where she believes – knows – this line of questioning is headed.

"Are we certain that Mr. Castle didn't leave of his own volition?" Gates asks her detectives. "Look, I know you don't want to consider this," she says, as she feels six eyes boring into her with deadly accuracy – and intent.

"He wouldn't do that, sir," Kate struggles between gritted teeth, angry at the very insinuation that this isn't what it appears to be – a kidnapping.

"He wouldn't, sir," Esposito agrees. "You have to know Castle, sir, and you . . . you really don't. He followed, chased, ran down our girl here for what . . . six years?

"Six years," Ryan quickly chimes in, agreeing with his partner. "No way Castle gets cold feet or gives up or changes his mind. Not with Kate. Not after all this time."

"Then where is the ransom request?" Gates almost shouts, angrily. "Where is the evidence?"

"The better question, guys, is who would want to do this?" Esposito asks. "Who would want to kidnap Castle on his wedding day? And are they trying to hurt Castle? Or were they trying to punish Kate for something?"

"That's a pretty long list in either case," Kevin Ryan replies, wistfully. "Wouldn't know where to even start."

"Start with the most obvious ones first," Kate says quickly, her mind starting to race. She walks to their murder board, and as she begins to clear it off and erase it, she stalls, stone silent.

"What is it, Detective Beckett?" Gates asks her. But Esposito knows. So does Ryan. This is a murder board. Not a burglary board. Not a kidnapping board. It's a path they know their partner is not ready to traverse.

"He's not dead, Kate," Esposito comments softly. "Now let's get to work."

Kate nods her head quickly, blinking away the hint of tears that threaten to arrive.

"Bracken," she comments, writing the name on the board.

"Negative," Ryan tells her. "He's in prison, awaiting trial. He's got bigger problems than spoiling your wedding."

All three nod their heads at Kate, who subsequently begins writing a second name.

"Scott Dunn," she says aloud.

"Already checked on him," Esposito tells her. "First thing this morning, while we were still out in the Hamptons. He's safely incarcerated at the Federal facility.

"Jerry Tyson," Kate offers, risking a quick glance at Kevin Ryan, who expresses – exudes – guilt any time the Triple Killer's name is even mentioned.

"Presumed dead," Gates tells them. "There has been no sighting, no hints, no innuendo that he is even alive."

"Vulcan Simmons," Ryan offers.

"Dead," both Kate and Esposito say, simulataneously.

"Any jealous ex-lovers, Detective?" Gates asks, risking the hop into Kate's personal life, hoping that the writer's safe and timely returns trumps any hesitancy to share that Kate might ask.

"Her ex's are all cops, sir," Esposito responds quickly.

"Well, not _all_ of them," Ryan corrects him.

"Who?" Gates asks.

"Oh yeah . . . motorcycle boy," Esposito adds. "Dr. Josh Davidson."

"Not his style," Kate immediately counters. "He wouldn't do this."

"Don't be so quick to give everyone alibi's or to dismiss anyone," Gates warns them, and each nods in agreement. Still, before long, another dozen or so names adorn the board, each with a rock solid alibi that the detectives know will be ironclad.

"Maybe we're going about this all wrong," Ryan interjects. "These are people who would have something in for Beckett. Kidnapping Castle hurts her, yeah. But what if they actually meant to hurt Castle? Who would want to hurt him?"

"Besides his ex-wives?" Esposito offers, with a smirk.

'Not funny, Javi," Kate counters, testily. "Stay on point here," she says, but her eyes soften as she knows she has come across too harshly. These are her friends, and they are only trying to help. And everyone deals with things in their own way. She cannot begrudge her friend for his way.

"Where would we even start with Mr. Castle?" Captain Gates asks. Suddenly, the room gets eerily, and frighteningly quiet, as realization sinks in with each of them.

"Do you even know who his best friends are?" Esposito asks.

"The Mayor, for one," Kate replies. "I think we can rule him out."

"College buddies? Writer buddies? Maybe a parent who he pissed off when Alexis was growing up?" Ryan asks.

"I . . . I don't know," Kate admits, and the admission scares her. She begins to realize – remind herself actually – how little she knows about Richard Castle's life before his arrival to the 12th Precinct. She knows he's been married twice, is a good dad, and plays poker with some well-known writers. But who he may have pissed off?

"The Russian," Kate says suddenly. "I have to go back and review my notes. But when Alexis was kidnapped, it ended up being some Russian who had an axe to grind with . . . with Castle somehow," she corrects herself, not certain if anything about Castle's father is hers to reveal.

"I thought you said the perpetrators were killed," Gates asks, her eyes narrowing at Kate Beckett.

"That is true, in so far as we know," Kate replies, evenly without backing down. "But we only know what Castle told me," she admits.

"Well, I suggest that we do some homework, people," Gates responds. "Let's find out whatever we can about Mr. Castle. His friends, people he has helped, people he has hurt, people from his college days. I don't want to leave any stone unturned, is this clear?"

"Crystal," Kate tells her, on behalf of her two partners and herself. She watches as her captain takes her leave, returning to her office. "What do you think, guys?" she asks her two friends.

"He didn't do this," Esposito tells her. "Don't worry about that for one minute. Someone took him. We will find him."

_**Still Day 2: Now the evening, Captivity on an isolated island offshore from Tangier Island**_

The cool night air feels wonderful to Richard Castle, now fully clothed again for the past couple of hours. Thankfully no more helicopter visits have occurred, and there hasn't been a hint of the beasts on the other side of the fence.

He's eaten half of a can of beans today, but has been drinking water generously. Exercise will keep his strength up – maybe even make him stronger. He has to stay in shape, mentally and physically. He will scarf down the last half of the beans before turning in for the evening. He risks another glance across the fence. Satisfied, he gazes upward at the moonlight sky for a second straight evening. Tonight, is a peaceful night. But the peace is somewhat disconcerting as well.

Where are the guards?

Where are the captors?

What do they want?

Why would anyone take him?

Why haven't they shown themselves to him already?

Knowing he has plenty of time – plenty of time – to ask and answer such questions, Richard Castle begins stripping the clothes off yet again. He knows the heat will return tomorrow morning, and would rather not wake up in a sweat again. Tonight is a reprieve, he realizes. Tomorrow, his friends across the fence will likely be hungry again. Tonight, they are most likely sated from their previous meal. But tomorrow. . .

"Tomorrow will take care of itself," he reminds himself. "Tomorrow will take care of itself."

He gathers his clothes, and walks back inside the cabin, naked and ready to turn in for the evening. He gets inside and glances at the marker on the bed. He had found the marker this morning when he went into the box to get a can of beans. He had rummaged through, and seen – in the light – what he had missed on the bottom of the box in the dark the previous evening.

A single, simple, felt writing marker. Something he can write with. He picks up the marker and walks to the closed door, and places a second vertical mark on the door.

Two days. He will count the days of his captivity. And he will write. He walks to the wall across from the window, where moonlight bathes a part of the wall with a soft light. And he begins to write a note, a letter. A quick note to his wife-that-will-still-be. One that she will never see, of course. But that's no reason not to write. He's not writing for her to read. He's writing to remind himself of why he has to get out of here. Of why he _will_ get out of here.

He writes for just a few moments, then replaces the top of the marker. He doesn't want to run out of ink. This ink, he has decided, is as important as the cans of food, the toilet paper. It is his lifeline.

A half hour later, his eyes finally, slowly close. His mind is tired and finally shutting down. His ears do not pick up the low rumble from the big cats, the soft pattering of feet outside the fence, as two hungry animals lift their noses to the wind, getting a scent, and offer glances at the small building beyond the fence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Monster: Chapter 3**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 3: Captivity on an isolated island offshore from Tangier Island, May 15, 2014**_

The slightly humid morning has given way to a blast furnace in the compound that is now home for one Richard Castle. Judging by the position of the sun that is still a few degrees from being directly overhead, it is probably approaching noon. The heat and humidity are oppressive as Castle keeps his now daily ritual – after only three days – of stripping down in the late morning and hand washing his clothes. He only wears his boxers – provided to him by whoever has placed him here – and a pair of low-top tennis shoes, also provided by his unknown captor – or captors – who still remains absent.

"At least they could have given me a pair of high-top Chucks," he chuckles to himself, desperate to keep his humor intact, his spirit engaged.

He's just finished a round of push-ups and sit-ups. He is committed to make late morning and early evening workouts a part of his regimen here. He follows each workout with a half can of whatever he selects for the day, plus a vitamin. The exercise helps with the loneliness. The worst part is not knowing anything.

Where is he?

Why is he here?

Who took him?

Did they take Kate also?

If so, where is she?

He keeps trying to convince himself that Kate is safe, and he's almost ready to believe it. It's easier to believe that whoever did this is just after him. Otherwise, they would have taken them both together, at the same time. That would have been easy.

Yeah, the worst part is not knowing anything.

The second worst part? The loneliness. The solitude. He can't believe how much he misses something as simple as talking to another human being. Hearing their voice. Listening to them laugh. So yeah, the exercise helps. It passes a good half-hour. He knows he needs to build it up to longer stints. He chuckles to himself, noting that – if nothing else – he's going to be in fantastic shape once he gets out of here.

And he _is_ going to get of here. He just doesn't know how yet. But he knows how he would write something like this. If he were writing it, then there would be a couple of little things. They wouldn't appear all that important at first glance. They would be things overlooked. Things that he – so far in this compound – has overlooked. But if he were writing this, he'd find them eventually, and they would be the tools of his escape. This logic tells him that whatever 'it' might be, he has likely already seen it. He just hasn't yet recognized it for what it is – a means to his escape.

He finishes his workout and now begins the second leg. A slow and easy jog – twelve times around the inner fence of the compound. Based upon his walk-off calculations, that's just over a mile. Push-ups, sit-ups, jog a mile. Stay in shape. Stay fresh. Stay frosty. Stay ready.

The compound is a perfect square, roughly one hundred and twenty feet by one hundred and twenty feet. The eastern side is all dirt. The northern side is paved, with a helipad. The western side is also dirt, where the well is located.

The southern side – already his favorite – is mostly dirt, but has a few patches of tall grass brush and a small tree, maybe fifteen feet in height. Unfortunately, it's taller than the fence but not anywhere close enough to the fence to attempt a scaling. His only concern with the southern side is snakes. He hasn't seen any, thankfully. But there have been a few grasshoppers, and he has – reluctantly – learned to suffer their taste. He knows he cannot keep his strength up on just beans and vitamins alone. He will supplement them with anything he can.

"_Only three days into it and I'm already eating bugs,"_ he muses sadly.

It strikes him that he is probably not the first person to be detained here. He's not _that_ important, and this is an elaborate set-up. A fortified fence, a landing pad, running water for toilet, and a water well. Whoever has taken him has likely used this place before. And not for torture or interrogation, he realizes. All that is needed for that is a room and a couple of chairs. And if particularly brutal, some form of electricity, which is non-existent here. But you don't need a toilet, and certainly no well.

He takes off jogging, feeling the growth on his chin and along the sides of his face with his left hand. He has no mirror, obviously, but it was already occurring to him this morning that he is working on three days growth. Clearly a bit more than a five o'clock shadow. As he runs, he idly thinks about Tom Hanks, and his transformation in that movie where he was on the island. The name escapes him, frustrating him. But he remembers Wilson. Wilson kept Hanks company, and now, even only three days into captivity, he truly understands the utter loneliness that drove Hanks' character to befriend a volleyball. Watching the movie with Alexis, Castle had found the whole concept humorous. Now? It's not so funny. He gets it. More than that – he is already wondering who - or what - his Wilson will be if he is stuck here much longer.

He is now three laps into the twelve, breathing a little harder, and wildly swiping at the small horde of black biting flies that follows him. Scratch that, these damn flies – _they_ are the worst thing about this God-forsaken place. They bite, and leave tiny welts, and just don't leave you alone! Someone watching from afar would mistake his half running, half dancing to avoid the flies routine as something straight out of a slapstick comedy movie.

By the sixth lap – halfway finished – he glances at the water pail/bucket that hangs on the handle of the water well pump. As he passes by, he can almost imagine eyes and a nose and a mouth on the bucket. Yeah, he's going to have to get out of here soon, or he's going to lose it.

Another five minutes pass as he comes to a halt after twelve laps. He bends at the waist, breathing hard.

"Not bad, old man," he tells himself. He walks to the water well and pump, and picks up the water bucket, filling it only half way. He greedily drinks down a few gulps of the water, then dumps the remainder on top of his head, smiling as the relatively cool water glides down his face, bare chest and soaks his boxers.

Now somewhat – if not temporarily – refreshed, he walks slowly back to the cabin. Inside he grabs a can – today, it's going to be beef stew – and pops the lid open, careful not to pull it all the way off. He will need to re-close it once he eats his portion. He grabs his single, plastic spoon and slowly begins to eat no more than half of the contents, savoring each bite, knowing that there are very few remaining for the day. Eating slowly, he stretches half can of stew out to almost fifteen minutes.

Glancing down at the can - realizing he has eaten the limit until this evening when he can have the remaining portion - he slowly pulls the top back down into place, working carefully so as not to cut his hands on the sharp rounded edge. He carefully places the can back into the box, closing it up. It tends to keep the bugs out.

He stares for a moment at the oval shaped vitamin in his hand. Canned beans or meat, and a vitamin. He's used to exotic Asian food, vibrant French cuisine, or hell – at least succulent Chinese food in a styrofoam container. Kate's favorite.

Kate. He closes his eyes, smiling as her face is bright and fresh in his mind. He does this often. He does not want that face to fade. Those are the scary thoughts that weigh on him.

How long will I be here before her face fades? Before I can't see her clearly anymore? Before her voice is just a memory? Before I don't remember her smell?

Thinking of her smell takes him down that road. He thinks of her small but perfect breasts, that used to – No! That _still_ fit perfectly into his hands. Her lips that marry his so wonderfully. Her hands that have performed magic tricks. He finds himself getting aroused, and quickly brushes the thoughts away.

"_Shit!" _he thinks to himself._ "No good. Those thoughts are no good. Not here." _

He knows _that_ road, _those_ thoughts, they will lead to nothing but trouble. Enhanced loneliness. Enhanced despair. Bitterness. He can't have that. Not here, and not now.

Wrestling himself away from such pleasant thoughts, he steps outside, taking a few quick steps as he walks over toward the southern fence, gazing out into the trees beyond. He closes his eyes, now realizing that he has – since lap nine, and during his brief meal, been humming the same tune from his boyhood of long, long ago. He laughs as he suddenly takes a big jump forward, his imaginary air guitar wailing as he screams out:

_Ba –da – da – Jeremiah was a bullfrog. _

_Ba – da – da – was a good friend of mine._

He finds himself doing this often during the day as well. Anything to break the monotonous silence. Songs from his past have become his best friends. Lines from his books that he has memorized have become his conversations.

Joy to the World by Three Dog Night was always one of his favorites. He hums and sings – and today is lost in a mid-song lead guitar riff that bridges the song. He does a quick twirl, finishing with another leap forward, as he belts out the final verse, head thrown back, his eyes closed and his voice screeching.

_You know I love the ladies, Ba – da- da_

_I love to have my fun, Ba – da - da_

_I'm a –_

Opening his eyes, he half screams as he falls back onto the ground in fright. His bouncing and flouncing have placed him less than two feet away from the fence. The larger lion stands, less than two feet from the outer fence, and simply stares at him. It is no more than eight feet away from him.

Just staring.

His head is huge. Simply massive. He makes no sound. Just stares at him. It is the most unnerving moment of his life, and Castle finds himself clenching just to hold on to his bowels.

His breathing is now coming in frightened gasps as he stares back at the big cat, desperately wanting to turn and run, but somehow unable to pull himself away; unable to take his eyes off of the magnificent beast.

Suddenly his mind conjures a memory of he and Alexis, sitting in the theatre watching the first – and best - Jurassic Park movie. He remembers Alexis jumping in terror when Game Warden Muldoon, stalking through the jungle, realizes that he's the one who has been hunted, turning too late to see the second raptor that attacks from the side.

The memory of the scene slowly turns Castle's head, allowing his eyes to break contact with the lion in front of him.

"Easy, Simba," he whispers to himself as he turns his eyes away and to the right, toward the western fence.

Nothing.

He slowly brings his gaze back to the big cat in front of him, whose eyes have not faltered. The beast's eyes remain fixed on Castle.

Continuing his turn toward the left, his gaze now rests over on the eastern fence. His breath catches as he sees the large lioness, some forty feet away, standing much like her partner. She is completely still, just a foot or so from the fence, her eyes on Castle.

Shaking, Richard Castle takes one step backward – no quick movements now – one step backward, then another, And another, slightly angling himself back toward the cabin. His eyes have found the larger lion once again, and he maintains eye contact with the beast with each step backward. The beast's gaze has not changed. Castle doesn't even risk a glance back at the eastern fence.

Half a minute goes by when he feels his back hit the cabin. He's backed himself all the way back to the safety of the cabin, and the massive animal still stands there – staring through him. He makes his way into the cabin, and closes the door. Only now does he realize that he has been holding his breath.

"Okay," he tells himself with a scared chuckle, "I guess they don't like Three Dog Night."

It's barely noon, and it is already hot enough in the cabin to suffocate a person, or at least so it feels. He knows that he cannot stay in here for long, but he can't find the courage to step back outside. He can't find the courage to even to go the window.

He sits here, now breathing hard in the hot confines of the cabin, already drenched in sweat. He watches the drops of sweat fall from his chin to the floor below. Almost twenty minutes have passed, and now he is just about ready to panic, when it finally hits him.

There are two tall fences, strong with barbed wire. If those things _could_ get in, they'd be in already.

Like him. If he _could_ get out, he'd be out already.

He slowly walks to the door, and opens it, immediately staring across at the fence where the larger lion had been. Scratch that - where the larger lion _still _stands, still staring, but now joined by his slightly smaller female companion.

One step in front of the other, Richard Castle walks out of the cabin, slowly, one foot in front of the other, he makes his way back toward the twin beasts. He stops roughly fifteen feet away from the two, and sits, keeping his eyes on both.

"We're all going to be here awhile," he says out loud, but softly. No need antagonizing these two. But he also knows he's got to get used to these two hungry predators. And as long as this fence separates them, he knows he is safe. Scared to death, yeah, but safe, nonetheless.

He chuckles to himself as he realizes the perverse irony here. He's simply at the zoo, nothing more. And in this zoo, _he's_ the caged animal, and the lions are the paying visitors. Except in this zoo, the paying visitors want to eat the caged animals.

And that's when the second revelation hits him. That thing that was pressing in the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Something he had seen, but overlooked. Something important.

"The cans," he tells himself, with a smile. "The pop-tops have sharp edges."

He nods his head, never taking his eyes off the beasts across the fence from him, close enough now to hear a soft rumble from the male. No matter. The pop-tops have sharp edges.

Someone is going to come, at some point. Whether to check on him, or bring more supplies. Obviously they want him alive, at least for now. At least for a while. But they will come. And when they do – well, now he has weapons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Monster: Chapter 4**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 4: The 12**__**th**__** Precinct in New York City, 9:45 a.m. May 16, 2014**_

It's already far too warm on this Friday morning in the city, with promises from the forecasters of a scorcher of a day. The detectives of the 12th know what that means. Blistering hot days mean hotter tempers. The kind of tempers that lead to problems. The kind of problems that end up on the desk of homicide detectives. There's already a certain edge to the detectives under Captain Victoria Gates, due to the missing status of their favorite writer. An edge that's going to get a tune up now.

Captain Gates catches Detective Kate Beckett as the woman comes out of the break room, a cup of coffee in her hand that is far from what she is used to.

"Anything new, sir?" Kate asks the captain, noticing Gates making a beeline for her.

"As a matter of fact, there is," Gates says, but Kate notices that her captain seems far from happy or pleased. Not the best of signs.

"Follow me into my office if you will," Gates tells her. "And grab Detectives Ryan and Esposito while you're at it. I'd rather not have to repeat myself."

Yeah, she's troubled all right. Kate stands, watching the captain walk briskly back into her office. Kate heads straight for their bullpen area, searching for her colleagues as instructed. Seeing them, heads-down in paperwork, she stops and quickly calls out.

"Javi, Kevin – Gates' office, right now. She says she has something for us."

The men jump up immediately, at a quick double pace to Gate's office. The loss of Richard Castle has impacted everyone here – but these three most personally. They are colleagues, yeah, but they are also friends and lovers. For the men, their friendships have deepened over the years. Everyone was looking forward to the wedding between Castle and Kate, and Esposito and Ryan were at the front of that line. This wedding had been over six years in the making. And it all fell apart in an instant.

"What do you have for us, sir?" Esposito asks, the first to speak once all three detectives are together with Gates.

"Have a seat," she tells them, glancing outside her office. "Grab an extra chair, Detective Ryan." Kevin Ryan quickly moves outside and pulls in another seat. Only then do the detectives notice Mayor Robert Weldon sitting at the Captain's small table in the corner, his back to the group, his head in his hands.

"Mr. Mayor," Kate begins, surprised to see the city's leader – and close personal friend of Richard Castle. A bad feeling begins to creep into her thoughts. "Forgive me, but am I supposed to be glad to see you?" she asks.

"Well, that depends, Detective Beckett," Weldon states, turning to face the detectives and their captain. "I can tell you that Richard Castle is alive."

Kate Beckett's elation at hearing the words 'Richard Castle is alive' is short lived, as she sees the expression on the mayor's face. It is not a celebratory face she sees.

"That, however, might be the extent of my good news," Weldon continues.

"He's alive?" she asks. "How do you know? Did you hear something?"

"You could say that," Mayor Weldon tells the room at large. "Captain Gates?"

The team turns to their captain, who points her finger, directing their attention to the small monitor in her office, connected to a portable DVD player.

"This video was delivered this morning to the Mayor's office by courier," Captain Gates begins. "We are already talking with the courier service to identify the sender of this video, but so far we are not having any luck."

"What do you mean, Captain?" Ryan asks.

"She means that the video was dropped off at the courier service by a representative of Jackson, Jackson and Smith, paid by credit card," the mayor tells them.

"Jackson, Jackson and Smith?" Kate says aloud. "Can't say that I have heard of them."

"That's because they don't exist," Weldon states. Fake company. Credit card is valid. So far, though, the name on the credit card is fake also."

"Any video of the drop-off?" Esposito asks hopefully.

"No video that we can use," Captain Gates replies. "Whoever dropped it off was well disguised. Used an umbrella."

"Excuse me," Kate interrupts. "Their disguise was _an umbrella_?"

"You heard me, Detective," Gates responds. "Seems they knew this courier location very well, knew where the camera was located. Only one camera, and it is pointed at the drop off counter. Whoever it was walked in, opened their umbrella, walked to the counter and dropped the package off, and left."

"That didn't seem suspicious to the service?" Esposito asks, incredulously.

"Apparently not," Mayor Weldon chuckles. "Not the most reputable bunch, that one," he continues. "And certainly not a lot of favorable reviews with the Better Business Bureau."

"That's all well and good," Ryan states, anxiously, "but what's on the tape? You said Castle is alive?"

"Captain?" the mayor replies, waiting for Captain Gates to hit PLAY on the video player. She does, and the group instinctively huddles closer.

It's obvious that this video is being shot from a tree somewhere. There is a branch that just partially obscures the picture, but there is enough clear viewing space to make out what is happening. The camera is obviously pointed at an open clearing below the tree. The group can make out a barbed wire fence. It's a tall one.

"What are we looking at?" Esposito asks, his eyes narrowing as if looking for a missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

"I'm not sure," the mayor replies. "I figure that you people here are going to be able to tell me. But keep watching."

A few more seconds pass and then they see it. Richard Castle comes flying into the picture, half naked, wearing only a pair of black boxers and . . . tennis shoes? And he is . . . playing air guitar? And obviously singing. He looks like he is having a blast.

"What the hell!" Esposito comments, his nose crinkled.

"Where is he?" Ryan asks.

"We don't know," the mayor responds. "But as you can see, he's alive."

"And seems like he is having a great time," Ryan comments, risking a glance at Kate Beckett, who remains quiet. She continues to watch the video, remaining motionless, save for her finger which taps on the desk.

"I wouldn't exactly categorize it that way," the mayor replies. "Keep watching."

There is no sound in the video, so it's a bit of a surreal scene. That it is in black and white makes it all the more . . . distant . . . detached from reality. They continue to watch Richard Castle bounce around, looking - for all the world - like he is on vacation, having a wonderful, playful time.

Except for the fence.

That's what Kate Beckett focuses on. She has noticed that it has barbed wire. That doesn't indicate vacation to her. That indicates captivity. But it also doesn't explain the behavior of the man she loves, the man who was supposed to marry her earlier this week. Yes, he seems to be having a great time, not a care in the world. It would be like him to be playing air guitar, bouncing around in his underwear.

But that's the second thing she notices. The boxers. He's not a boxers kind of man. He has only a couple of pairs, and that isn't one of them.

And then there are the tennis shoes. They aren't his either. She knows if Richard Castle is going to wear tennis shoes, they are going to be Chucks. He's very much old school in that regard.

So yeah, it looks like he is off gallivanting in some tropical location, with this video being sent for the sole purpose of hurting her, the sole purpose of putting a knife into her heart. And it would have worked, if not for the fence. And the boxers. And the shoes.

And the lion?

"Is that a fucking lion?" Esposito shouts, himself jumping back a bit as the camera pans just slightly to the right.

"Where? Where?" Ryan asks loudly, his eyes searching quickly left and right before he sees it, too.

"Where in the hell _is_ he?" Ryan asks, now clearly worried.

The group watches the moment Richard Castle spots the big cat as well, as they watch him interrupt his musical extravaganza by hurling himself backwards on the ground. They watch the stare down between man and beast that seems to last forever. In reality, it is only a few seconds before they watch Castle slowly look toward the tree. Then he glances to the opposite direction. They cannot see what he sees. But they watch as he slowly starts moving backwards. Soon he is out of view.

Then the video goes black.

The team is quiet for a few seconds, as each begins to process what they have just seen. Gates and Weldon, of course, have seen this video already. Both are far more interested in the reactions and opinions of the other three people around the table. It takes five or six seconds for the team to react. Kate is first.

"Thank God he is alive," she begins, and they can see the relief on the face of the woman. "He's being held captive, that's for certain."

"How certain are you, Detective?" Gates asks. She sees the looks she is getting from her detectives, but has to remind them of the value of objectivity.

"Look, everyone, I want a happy ending here as much as anyone else," she says. "I just want to consider all options."

"Well, my option says it's pretty obvious he is being held," Esposito begins. "Look at the evidence."

"What evidence is that, Detective?" Mayor Weldon asks. As a good friend of Richard Castle, the mayor has a personal vested interest in this as well.

"Two things. First , there's the fence," Esposito says, looking directly at the mayor as he speaks. "Replay the video and you will see that it is a tall, barbed wire fence. Now, I haven't been to the most exquisite hotels on the planet, but I can tell you that I've never been to a hotel, resort, condo or whatever surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Castle's got money. If he is going off into play mode somewhere, I think he would have scratched this one off once he saw the barbed wire fence in the photos."

"And the lion," Ryan adds, shaking his head.

Kate nods her head in agreement. She half smiles, appreciating the fact that Esposito is firmly in the court of Castle being abducted and not off playing in the tropics with some scantily clad . . . she can't even finish the thought. But she also cannot fault his logic either. A barbed wire fence – she had noticed it as well. And Esposito is right. A protective fence keeping wild animals out isn't exactly the type of getaway she associates with her almost-husband.

"Second, there's the vantage point of the video. It wasn't shaking, and it panned smoothly. So that means the camera is planted there. There wasn't anyone holding it. And it's sitting in a tree. That hints of secrecy, of espionage. As in Castle doesn't know it's there."

All four other adults consider Esposito's points, and find both solace and validity in his points. Kate is the next to speak up.

"Well, the most important piece of evidence, to me, is the evidence itself," she says. "The video itself. It was sent to _you_, Mr. Mayor. Why? Why you? If this was someone trying to embarrass Rick, they would have tweeted it out, let it go viral."

"Hashtag jungle love, some crap like that," Esposito agrees, drawing a smile from Ryan, and a frown from Beckett.

"The question remains," Kate continues. "Why send it to the mayor?" she asks, now addressing the room at large. "Why not send it to me? I'm his fiancée. Why not send it to Rick's publisher? Why not send it here to the 12th?" She turns and addresses the mayor directly.

"I know that you and Rick are good friends, real good friends," she tells him, "but you have to admit it is strange that Rick goes missing on the day of _our wedding_, the news reports everywhere are talking about how he went missing on the day of_ our wedding_, I've had reporters calling me non-stop asking for quotes, asking for updates – yet when a video shows up, they don't think about the bride, or the mother of the groom, or the publisher, or the press. They think of _you?_"

Her logic is unassailable, and everyone comically sits back for an instant, considering Kate's words. Why would someone send the video proving that Castle is alive to the mayor, of all people? Why not the police, why not the news station, why not the bride?

"Whoever it is, they had to know I would bring this to the police," Mayor Weldon answers, himself now asking the same question. "So why bring it to me first? What was I supposed to do with it?"

The five people in the room simply stare at each other, no good answer forming on any lips, or in any minds.

_**Somewhere on the East Coast, Roughly half an hour ago at 9:30 a.m. May 16, 2014**_

"It's me. It's done."

"You dropped it off at the courier?"

"As you instructed."

"And you are sure it is at the 12th now?"

"Positive. I'm sitting outside the precinct right now, and the mayor just walked in."

"Good, good. Okay, take off. No need to stick around and risk being seen."

"Okay. If you don't mind me asking, why have me send it to the mayor's office first? You knew he'd take it right to the 12th. Why not send it directly to them?"

"It's part of the game, Rodney. They will be asking themselves that very same question, instead of asking themselves _the right _question. Keeping them off balance is just part of the game."

"If you say so. I'm just glad to be a part of it."

"I know you are. Your father would be proud. Now, get out of there."

CLICK.

_**Day 4: Back on the small island, 6:15 p.m. May 16, 2014**_

The sun is hinting at finally setting, much to Richard Castle's satisfaction. The heat today has been especially brutal, and he has found solace sitting under the shade of the tree on the southern side of the compound. He made it through both of his workouts, but needed extra water after each. The heat has been relentless, and Castle smiles as he sees the two lions slowly make their way toward him. He hasn't seen them all day, and assumed they were sleeping. He is glad for the fence, however, because he knows they must be getting hungry. Unless there is a wealth of mid-sized animals in the trees back there, they must be ready to eat again.

"_Fat chance there,"_ he thinks to himself. If there were any smaller animals here, they are long eaten by now.

"Simba. Nala. How are you?" he greets the two approaching beasts, hearing their low rumbles. He takes a deep breath, staying completely still. He doesn't want to make any sudden movements to spook them. Yeah, like that's going to happen. He finds himself humming, and smiles when he recognizes his tune. The spot where he sits under the tree in the shade is roughly some fifteen feet from the fence. No need getting too close. His humming slowly turns to singing. Softly, of course.

_It means no worries_

_For the rest of your days_

_It's our problem-free_

_Philosophy_

_Hakuna Matata_

The sound of chopper blades in the distance stirs him out of his song. He stands quickly, drawing a growl from the smaller female, who is now pacing back and forth. He moves from underneath the tree out into the open, wandering toward the helipad, when his heart sinks. Sinks deep into his stomach. The chopper isn't landing. At least not inside the compound. His stomach begins churning as worst-case scenarios start playing out in his mind. He doesn't have time to wonder, however, as seconds later the helicopter hovers just beyond the southern fence. Castle jogs over to the fence. He is close enough now to see the pilot, who wears a helmet and sunglasses . . . and a menacing smile.

Suddenly – predictably – a body drops to the ground.

"Madre de Dios," the man cries as he falls within five feet of the smaller female, who pounces immediately. The screams of the man fade away into the trees where she carries him, but Castle isn't watching. He keeps his gaze - fierce and strong - on the pilot and the two other men in the chopper who stare at him, smiling through the windshield. One of the men in the back seat laughs, giving Castle a final wave as the chopper begins to elevate back into the sky.

Where the boldness comes from, he is not sure. But rather than cower, Castle lifts his left hand at the chopper, forming an imaginary gun. He quickly pulls his hand back and upward, simulating a firing motion. The smiles on all three helicopter passengers freeze, and slowly fall away as the chopper lifts higher and passes overhead and out into the distance.

It's a risky move, he admits. But if he is going to get out of here, he needs that chopper to land. Inside this compound. There is no other way out of here. So whether his is outmanned, outgunned, out-whatever – he has to get them to land. If he has to goad them into it, then so be it. And he has to be ready when they do land.

"I'll be seeing you," he tells the departing chopper, now out of sight. The growls of the two beasts can be heard, but – thank God – there are no screams. Castle hopes it was quick for the unfortunate man. Staring at the trees, he can't help the tears that finally fall. Angry tears this time, and the anger stays with him as he walks back to the tree, and sits down in roughly the same spot. Hot and sweaty, his body glistening with the sweat from the day, he closes his eyes, and pulls up a mental picture of Alexis, her red hair flowing, her beautiful smile plastered across her face, standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her voice in his ear . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Monster: Chapter 5**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 5: On an isolated island in the Tangier Islands, Late Morning, May 17, 2014**_

The early morning sweat cakes his forehead as Castle sits – naked – under the shade of the tree near the southern fence. He can't tell if he is starting to develop a low grade fever, or if his body is simply beginning to rebel against the sudden immersion into this very different world.

No air conditioning, limited food, no soap, no toothpaste, no deodorant. No socks, so he has to guard against blisters on his feet from the tennis shoes provided for him. No razor, so no shaving. Even with the bucket drenches from the water well, he feels horribly dirty. He smells. His mouth is dry. His hair, now longer, is oily and the makings of a beard begins to cake to his skin.

And the bugs – between the damn black flies and the mosquitos – well, he knows the possibility of catching something pretty bad out here with no antibiotics. The vitamins aren't going to help. The small welts on his arms and legs itch, but it's the ones on his back, the ones he can't reach that are starting to drive him crazy. They are the proverbial itch you cannot scratch. Added all together - the bugs, the sun, the solitude . . .

And finally – he's not hungry. Hungry doesn't begin to describe what he feels. He is beyond starving. He misses his fiancée. He misses his daughter. He misses his life. He's been sentenced by someone to solitary confinement, with a hint of gruesome death just across the fence that forms the cell bars, keeping him in. And he has no idea why.

He scratches his arms furiously, and then finally buries his head in his hands as he sits. Today, everything is starting to pile up and take its toll on the writer. No, today is not a good day. Yesterday he felt strong, he felt courageous, he felt – and he knows it is illogical – but he felt somewhat in charge. Nothing has really changed from yesterday to today – but everything has changed, somehow.

Yesterday's defiance is gone. Today, he is despondent. He just wants to go home, to get out of here. It's been five days now, by the count he keeps on the wall. He didn't know how long he would be here on that first day, but somehow as he approaches the one week mark, it seem interminably longer than that. Somehow the psychological motion of making that horizontal line across and through the four previous vertical strokes on his wall has thrown Castle for a loop. An endless loop he is now stuck in.

"Arrrgh!" he screams suddenly, trying to brush away the small swarm of ten or twenty flies that buzz around his face. He can feel himself slowly losing it. He knows he has to regain his cool, his composure, but he has allowed himself to go too far down, too quickly this morning.

"Help me, God," he mutters to himself, opting now for faith as opposed to his own logic or planning.

A minute passes, then another. And another. Richard Castle picks himself up off the ground with a sigh, and brushes himself off. He walks to the water well, and grabs the bucket. He takes off his shoes, and fills the bucket up to the brim. He quickly drops the entire contents on top of his head. He fills the bucket a second time and repeats the procedure. Then a third time.

He falls to his knees, his face into the ground, mumbling incoherently for a few seconds. Gathering himself, he stands back up, one last time filling the bucket and dumping it on his head, down his body. Staring upward at the sky, he narrows his eyes against the bright sun, and exhales deeply.

"Thank you," he whispers, and slowly walks back toward the tree on the southern side. Retrieving his boxer shorts that he had left hanging on a tree branch, he walks back toward the well. A half bucket later, his shorts are drenched, and he pulls them up, feeling the cool water against his skin. He takes another deep breath, and drops toward the ground, his first round of push-ups for the morning in front of him.

"_Stick with the routine, Rick," _he tells himself._ "You can do this, dammit."_

_**Day 5: Somewhere on the East Coast, Same time, on May 16, 2014**_

"Yes, what is it?"

"You said to call if there is any change."

"Yes, that's right. So talk to me, what has changed?"

"I can't tell for certain, but I think the insect population is starting to take its toll on him. Might have been the sun, but I can't be sure. He might be getting feverish."

"Okay, thank you. Have Blackman make another run today, just to drop some antibiotics to the ground. We want him alive. Can't have him getting sick."

"Okay, I will let him know."

There is a pause for a few seconds, before the conversation continues.

"What else can you tell me?"

"It's starting to weigh on him, emotionally."

"About time. A few days later than I expected. Impressive."

"You sound like you admire him."

"You sound like you forget your place, Jason."

"No, no. I don't. I was just saying –"

"I know what you were saying, Jason. Anything else?"

"He looks like hell."

"Captivity will do that to you, Jason. Remember that."

The thinly veiled threat ends the conversation, as Jason hangs up, suppressing a cold shudder that hits him. Shaking it away, he glances down at his cell phone and dials a new number.

"Blackman," the voice announces by way of greeting.

"It's me. She wants you to make another run out there. Drop off a small box of antibiotics," Jason tells him.

"What, is our little debutante feeling a little under the weather?" the pilot asks, remembering the arrogance their captive had shown just yesterday.

"Seems to be. And you know we need to keep him alive."

"Yeah, Yeah, I know," Blackman replies testily. "I will get out there this afternoon. Thanks for the heads up."

Both men mutually disconnect the call, as Blackman smiles to himself.

"Can't wait to see you again, Mr. Castle," he chuckles softly, with a strong hint of mischief and menace dusting his voice.

_**Day 5: New York City, at Richard Castle's Loft, 11:45 a.m., May 16, 2014**_

Alexis Castle stands at the large, floor to ceiling window in her father's loft on this Saturday morning, her hands hanging limply at her side. Her signature hair is in a ponytail, a very different look for the young woman. She's spending the weekend here from college. There is only one more week of classes and tests before she will be finished with this semester. Her mind, however, is far, far from the college campus.

"Find anything?" she asks the woman who sits at the kitchen island. Alexis doesn't turn to face her as she asks, simply continuing to stare out the window at . . . at nothing.

"Not yet," Kate Beckett replies, her frustration mounting. She has been staring at the video for the past hour and a half. Playing. Rewinding. Playing again. The process has been repeated countless times now. She knows – in her bones – that the clue she needs is here.

"Why send this to you, Kate?" Alexis asks. "Why send this without a ransom note, without some request. It's like whoever did this just wanted us to know that Dad is alive – but nothing beyond that."

"That's exactly what they want us to know, Alexis," Kate replies again, still not taking her eyes off the video that she continues to replay.

"Then why no ransom?" the young redhead ask with exasperation, now turning to face the detective.

"I don't know," Kate responds, still focused entirely on the video. She feels the young woman's gaze and finally glances up at her.

"I don't know, Alexis," she repeats, "but I am going to find the answers. Count on it."

"Have you figured out why they sent the video to the mayor?" Alexis asks. "You don't think he's involved in this do you? He's supposed to be my dad's –"

"Mayor Weldon isn't involved, Alexis," Kate tells her, "And I don't know why they sent him the video, but I've decided that isn't important."

"Why not?" Castle's daughter asks, now confused. "That's all you could talk about last night, and –"

"And that was my mistake," Kate almost spits out. "All of our mistake. It's unimportant. What's important is _on_ the tape, not where it was sent."

Kate sees the confused look deepen, and so she stands, and walks towards her almost step-daughter, stopping just in front of her, with her hands in her pockets.

"You saw the video, Alexis," she begins. "When we first saw it, the first impression was that your dad was off having a good time. I thought that's what they wanted us to believe – what they wanted _me_ to believe. But then they panned to the lions. And they showed your dad's reaction. See, they didn't have to do that. They could have left it with your dad prancing around playing air guitar. They could have cut the video right there."

"But they didn't," Alexis comments, a bit of life springing into her still young eyes. If there is anyone there who knows what it is like to be caged, it is Alexis. Her ordeal in Paris is still not _that_ far behind her yet.

"Right," Kate agrees. "They didn't. They wanted us to see. There is something there," Kate says, pointing back to the DVD. "There is something on there that will tell us where he is, what is happening."

"How do you know?"

"I just know, Alexis," Kate replies. She gives the younger woman a long hug, then releases her and walks back toward the kitchen island – and the DVD.

"I just know."

_**Day 5: Late Afternoon on the Island, on May 16, 2014**_

For Richard Castle, the day has gotten slightly better. After his near meltdown this morning, his routine of exercise has actually put him in better spirits. He has not seen the lions today, but that does not surprise him, as the beasts will tend to sleep longer after . . . after feeding.

He stares at the fence, slightly horrified when he realizes that he actually misses seeing the two big cats staring back at him. They are fearsome, yes. They are terrifying. But they are also company, a break in the solitude.

They are all that he has.

He glances up at the sun, now starting its descent toward the horizon. He figures he has another three hours or so of sunlight left. Too soon for his second exercise series, and too soon to eat. It's this monotony, nothing to do, that eats at him.

That, and the flies, of course.

He's certain that he is feverish now, and he wonders for the umpteenth time today if this is how he is going to go . . . feverish from bug bites, incarcerated God knows where by God know who.

The rotating blades of the chopper catch him by surprise. He associates the chopper now with lion feedings, and it is far too soon for the large beasts to feed again. He glances upward toward the sound until he sees the helicopter break through the top of the trees. His heart sinks as he is not mentally prepared for another body drop. Not today.

However, the chopper does not head toward the fence. Instead, it hovers just overhead, roughly twenty to twenty-five feet above the captive novelist. From here Castle can see the pilot. He's the same guy, sunglasses and all, and he's smiling. Again.

Castle dodges the small box that breaks on impact from being dropped from the aircraft. He walks toward the contents, now spilled across the ground. He kneels down to the ground, rummaging through a few packets and inspecting them. He recognizes an antibiotic, and an oral steroid, and a hydrocortisone cream. He can't resist a chuckle as he examines his new care package.

"Well, it's obvious they want me alive," he mutters. Suddenly he feels the wind pick up dramatically, and glancing upward, his heart all but stops as he sees the mighty chopper angled down towards him, the blades far too close for comfort. He quickly scrambles away but the chopper smoothly banks toward the cabin and then back towards him, blocking his escape.

He falls backward on the ground, and now us frantically backing away from the angled blades, clearly seeing his new nemesis, Blackman, grinning through the windshield. He backs further and further, scooting away until he screams in agony, his back and neck scraping against the barbed wire fence. The chopper suddenly rights itself and lifts into the sky.

He moves forward off the fence, thankful that no skin stays pulled behind, and crawls the twenty or so feet to the shade of the tree. He lies flat on his face, breathing heavily, knowing that he has made an enemy.

"No matter," he mutters aloud. "Not my friend anyway."

Even though not intended, Phil Blackman's actions only serve to reinforce Castle's resolve. The inner strength, the anger, the deep resolve that was dissipating this morning has re-emerged for the writer, who finally picks himself up into a seated position, and finds himself face to face with his only companions.

The two lions have been attracted to the sound of the helicopter, obviously anticipating another drop. As always, they stand, motionless, staring at Castle.

"Sorry guys," Castle smiles. "No meal today." He stands and walks toward the water well, grabbing a handful of medical packets as he goes. He takes off his pants, shirt and shoes, and fills the bucket to the brim. Dumping it on his head, he feels the sting along his neck and back.

"Jerk," he says under his breath. "You're first on my list when I get out of here," he says, and the thought brings a smile to his face. The silent fury he feels is growing, hardening him. He dumps a second bucket on his body, then opens a packet of cream and rubs it along his arms and legs. A second packet he rubs on his neck, and any area of his back he can reach.

He then opens a package of the steroids, and slams six of the pills down with a slurp of water, knowing that he will reduce the count by one each day. Just this thought reminds him that he's likely going to be here in six days when he finishes the dosage.

"So be it," he tells himself, now more than ever committed to seeing this through.

"You're not going to break me," he says aloud, talking to no one. "You can't break me. I'll be going home. Home to my wife-to-be. I'm going to see my daughter again, my mother."

He glances at the packet of antibiotics, and decides to wait until tonight, knowing he should eat first. It strikes him that he probably should have taken the steroid with food.

"Too late for that," he mutters as he walks, now clad only in his boxers, toward the southern fence again. He stops two feet from the fence, and sits. The two lions simply stare, their low growl rolling across the ground. Suddenly, the larger male sits. A half minute later, the female follows suit, both cats still focused on Richard Castle. Castle cannot help the slow smile that forms on his lips, as he watches the magnificent beasts.

"We're going to be here for a while," he tells them. "I get that. Okay," he smiles, making introductions. "I'm Castle. Richard Castle. My friends call me Rick. Most of them, anyway."

_**Day 5: Late Evening on the East Coast, on May 16, 2014**_

Jason Fowler sits on his sofa in his apartment, relaxing with a beer in hand, settling in to watch the late night news. Always a news buff, he is fascinated with what the media determines to be worthy of broadcast. He takes a sip and smiles contentedly, crossing his legs as the blonde news anchor begins her first story. The ringing phone interrupts his peace, bringing a frown to his face.

"Fowler," he answers gruffly without looking at the caller ID.

"Jason," the familiar voice greets him, snapping him to attention. "We have a problem."

"My bad, I didn't realize it was you," he says. "Problem - how so?"

"With our delivery this afternoon."

"Impossible. I spoke to Blackman myself. He said there were no problems."

"The problem, Jason, _is_ Blackman."

"Uh . . . Okay, I don't understand."

"Watch the video feed from 4:45 this afternoon. And as you watch, recall that I was very clear that under no circumstances is our guest to be harmed in any way. I thought that was clearly understood."

"It was . . . It is. Believe me, there is –"

"Watch the video feed, Jason. And find me a new pilot. Tonight."

"I don't . . . I don't understand."

"Am I going to have a problem with you, also, Jason? I _am_ speaking English, aren't I? Find me a new pilot. Tonight. We have another run to make tomorrow."

"No! No ma'am, there is no problem. I will get Paulie, or Turk. Both guys are good and discreet."

"Good. I am glad to hear that."

"What about Blackman? I mean . . . well . . ."

"The twins visited Mr. Blackman this evening."

Jason Fowler shudders at the thought of a visit from the twins. At six feet, four inches and roughly two hundred and forty pounds, the two black men are specimens of ferocity. Identical twins, and almost considered family by his employer, the designated enforcers are turned loose for one purpose and one purpose only.

"I . . . I am sorry to hear that."

"Not as sorry as Mr. Blackman. My pets will eat well tomorrow night. Goodbye Jason."

The click in his ear startles him back to the present, as visions of his colleague's fate assault his senses. Dropping his beer, Jason Fowler barely makes it to the toilet before falling to his knees and relieving himself of the cheeseburger and fries he had just finished minutes ago.


	6. Chapter 6

**Monster: Chapter 6**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 6: At Castle's Loft in New York City, Early Morning, May 18, 2014**_

She sits in front of the large, expansive window in the living room, staring out into the street at . . . nothing. Her mind a complete blank, her eyes blurred by tears that refuse to leave their nesting ground. Holding on to her cup of coffee with both hands, she struggles to make sense of the past week.

Just a week ago – has it only been seven days? Just seven days ago, on Mother's Day, about this very same time, in this very same room, she sat in this very same spot, holding a cup of the same coffee. The only thing different is that seven days ago, her son sat across from her. Handsome and smiling as always. And sitting next to her were fresh roses with a single stalk standing tall, her Mother's Day gift that was waiting for her when she awoke and found her way downstairs to this chair . . . her chair.

The flowers – oh, they are still there, next to her. The smell has dampened, and the small leaves are just beginning to droop. But she can't bear the thought of parting with the arrangement. Not now. Not yet. Not until he is back home, safe and sound, where he belongs.

She doesn't hear the detective walk silently behind her, unaware of her presence until the younger woman's soft hands rest on her shoulders, just below the brilliant strands of red.

"Still no word," Martha intones, still staring outside into the street.

"I know," Kate acknowledges, herself now searching for what holds the older woman's interest. It takes a few seconds before Kate realizes that there is nothing there. Nothing to see. And that's the sadness that overtakes both women. She stares at the still barely alive arrangement, and then glances over at the single white rose, in the vase on the coffee table, adorned by tulips. Castle had given it to her last weekend in honor of her mother. Long gone, but "still living vibrantly through her daughter", Castle had told her has he presented her with something she had never received - her first Mother's Day present.

"You're a mother-figure, a role model for my daughter, and have been for a couple of years now," he had said, leaving the room silent, with nary an eye misting as he had used the opportunity to sing the praises of the three women in his life.

And now his loft – his home – _their_ home – is silent again, but the simmering joy that hovered just underneath last weekend is gone, replaced by a hopeless melancholy that neither women seems able – or even desiring – to shake at the moment.

"I love you, Kate," Martha whispers, a single tear flowing down her cheek.

"I love you, too, Martha," Kate replies, her voice far stronger than she feels, but emboldened simply to provide strength to the woman sitting below her who, for the first time in almost seven years, looks all too frail to the detective.

She pats the woman on the shoulder, and then walks to the kitchen island, and fires up her laptop computer. Within seconds, she is gone, her mind focused, her eyes locked in to the only piece of evidence she has, the only string she can still grasp, as she watches the video again, for the hundredth time or so.

"It's got to be here," she says softly. "Something is here."

_**Day 6: Somewhere on one of the isolated Tangier Islands, Early Morning, May 18, 2014**_

_Dear Kate,_

_I still remember your face. How your hair, their curls, hang softly down, shadowing the most expressive eyes I have ever seen. I still remember your smell, after you have washed your hair, and when you awaken in the morning. I thought I smelled you this morning when I awoke. For a moment, I thought I was back home – with you. I reached out my arm to find you, but – of course – I was swinging at air. No matter. I am six days into this, and your face, your touch, your very breath remains vivid in my mind. For that, I am thankful._

_Yours,_

_Castle_

He walks to the box and drops the marker back into it. He glances at the wall, brightened by the morning sunlight that fights through the single window in his small cabin. The wall now has almost ten letters, ten messages that he has written in the past six days. He has decided that for as long as he is here, he will write to her. It occurred to him last night that he may die here. Oh, whoever has done this wants him alive, and is trying hard to keep it that way. But this is a dangerous place. Stuff happens. He has no illusions of his chances of making it out of here alive. But there is one thing he knows.

This place _will_ be found. Someday. He may be long gone by then, long dead before anyone comes across this God-forsaken place. And when they do, he hopes they have a big rifle, or they aren't going to make it into his little camp-from-hell, as he now calls it. They won't make it past the two guards that stand on the other side of the fence.

Yeah, someday someone will come across this place. And when they do, they will know that he was here. They will know that this was where Richard Castle lived his final days. But most of all, they will know that he died still loving the woman he was supposed to marry. He died thinking about her every day. They will know that he didn't lose her, her face was ever with him, giving him strength, and maybe just a little hope.

They will know that in this place of deep and desolate solitude, he was not alone.

And they will tell her. Who knows, perhaps she will come to this place, once it is discovered, and see for herself the strength she willed to him, and how she was so far away, but right there with him. He hopes it gives her some level of comfort.

He smiles at the various writings on the wall, but then flops back onto the bed. He knows he should get up, he knows the regimen he has created. He knows the value in sticking with this regimen. But today, he is just plain tired. It is day six, he knows. Lying in the bed, he finds himself giggling to himself.

"_God created the earth in six days," _he chuckles to himself._ "Six days sure didn't seem like all that long, reading it in a chapter."_

He closes his eyes, shouting down the voice in his brain telling him to get up, clean up, eat his portion, and exercise.

"_And on the seventh day, he rested,"_ he laughs to himself. He sighs comfortably, content to doze away into the morning, when his inner monologue finally bludgeons him back into consciousness.

"_But this is day __**six**__, soldier," the voice tells him. "Now get off your ass and out into the camp!"_

He startles back awake, shaking the cobwebs, and the disillusionment, off from his head.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to shout about it," he mutters to himself. Rising, he walks outside toward the well, and glances upward at the sky. It's cloudy today, and markedly cooler than the past few days. Thankful for the small victories, he smiles, picks up the bucket and pumps the cool water into the pail.

"Up and at 'em" he says softly, dumping the contents on top of his head, steeling himself for the day ahead.

_**Day 6: A Large Catholic Cathedral in New York City, Mid-Morning, May 18, 2014**_

He glances down at the small hand that holds his own. The singing from the huge choir toward the front awakens her from her slumber time and time again. He glances at his wife, who simply smiles at him. She knows that though he holds his daughter's hand, though he smiles at her – his mind is light years away. She risks a second glance beyond her husband at his best friend, his darker skin standing out in contrast to that of her husband.

She notes that the two men hold hands, tightly gripped, and realizes that they are in a conversation with the owner of this building. She shudders at the steel determination etched in both men's faces. The singing finally stops, and the short, stout priest comes forward. Javier Esposito, however, stands, and her husband stands with him.

"Got to go, Jenny," Kevin Ryan tells his wife. "Things to do," he mutters as he walks away with his friend. She simply nods her head, understanding. She came here for the service. They came for a prayer. Having accomplished that, the two men walk down the aisle toward the front door of the cathedral. Once the door is open and they are through, Esposito takes out his phone, and punches a contact.

"On our way," he tells her.

"Thanks, Javi. The door will be unlocked," Kate Beckett tells him.

"Find anything?" he asks her, knowing the answer already. If she had found something, she would have texted them.

"Not yet," she replies quickly, "but I need another set of eyes."

"Be there soon," he tells her, and clicks off. The two men hail a cab, and are on their way to the loft as the taxi pulls away - screeching - from the curbside.


	7. Chapter 7

**Monster: Chapter 7**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Still Day 6: On an isolated island in the Tangier Islands, Early Evening, May 18, 2014**_

The antibiotics must be taking some kind of effect, because, all things considered, Castle is feeling much better this evening – better even than this morning. Physically, that is. He knows he is still slightly feverish, but it has broken today – initially after he climbed back into his bed in the early afternoon – swearing to himself that he just needed a nap.

Upon awakening, he immediately realized that he – and his sheets – were soaking wet. He had taken the sheets out to the well, drenched them and placed them on the barbed wire fence, where they now hang, drifting in the slow breeze. That was an roughly an hour ago when he had awakened. Now, he can feel the fever returning. He finds one of the packages of antibiotics dropped yesterday, and pops the entire contents into his mouth, swallowing them down without water.

Realizing that he may regret the move later, he quickly walks to the well, fills the bucket just to a couple of ounces, and swallows it down. Then, filling it roughly half way, he splashes his face with the liquid.

He glances across to the southern side of the compound and – sure enough – there they are. They are sitting again. Perhaps they are getting comfortable with him? No matter, he is hungry, and the only thing worse than him being hungry right now is recognizing that his two friends are likely hungry again as well. It's been two days since they fed.

He grabs a can – this time it's canned ravioli and meat that he has just opened. It dawned on him this morning that opening these canned goods and then allowing a half portion to sit all day in the heat of the indoors cabin might not be the healthiest decision he has ever made. So now he eats two cans a day, and simply has to hope that the guys who brought medicine will know when to bring more food. That, of course, assumes that by then, they still want him alive.

"Treating myself tonight, guys," he tells the two large beasts as he walks toward the southern fence. Seconds later, he sits on the ground, legs crossed. He is no more than eighteen inches from the fence. He is so close that his mind tells him he can feel their breath. It's his mind playing tricks again – it's been doing that for the past day or so.

"You two like Italian?" he asks, snickering to himself. He takes a long, slow, small bite, savoring the lukewarm ravioli when he stops in mid-swallow.

"The medicine," he says aloud, then drops his gaze away from his companions and stares over at the ground where they had dropped medicine packets – as if they are still there. They aren't of course. He took them into the cabin after the drop. But that's the point.

"The medicine!" he says again, this time putting his food down and slapping his forehead.

"You idiot," he thinks, and now smiles – for the first time in six days it is a genuine smile of contentment, of success.

"How did they know to drop me medicine?" he asks aloud. "How did they know I was feverish?"

The answer is simple – and there can only be one answer. They knew he was feverish because somehow, they have been watching him. Somewhere – either here in the compound or past the fence in the trees is a camera. A video camera, most likely. They – whoever 'they' are – have been watching him this entire time. They must have seen his sluggishness the other day, and put two and two together regarding these damn flies and mosquitos.

"No quick movements," he says half aloud. He picks his can back up, and starts eating again – this time with a bit more gusto. It's a little victory, he tells himself, but he needs these small victories. He smiles, taking another bite, glancing across at his two friends, a soft rolling rumble coming from the male.

"I know, Simba," he tells him under his breath. "I'm hungry, too." The food is actually good tonight, or perhaps it's just his now-uplifted spirits that make even the food seem to taste better. He smiles to himself, thinking about the video camera, and where it could possibly be located. He has a few ideas, but he doesn't want them to realize he is on to their secret. He will have to do this with a bit of stealth. He laughs – literally. Stealth? Oh yeah, he can do stealth. Years of stalking Alexis through the loft, their lazer tag elements attached to their chests will finally come in handy this evening.

Then a second thought hits him, and he smiles again. Now he is finally thinking like a writer again – moreover, like a writer who has spent the past seven years working with the cops.

They have a video camera. But why? There are a number of reasons they would want to have a camera. Because he has been kidnapped, however, there are two more-likely-than-not scenarios. Scenario one – they just want to keep an eye on him. He's their prisoner, in solitary confinement. They have to have a way of keeping tabs on him. Yeah, that would make sense.

Scenario two, however, is just as plausible for a kidnapping. And yes, he's been kidnapped. So the question is, have they asked for ransom? Because if they have asked for ransom, they have to give some kind of proof that he is still alive. And for that, they would need . . .

A video camera.

He smiles happily, a rush of contentment hitting him. Finally, an answer. Not a big one – and maybe not even one that is relevant. But Richard Castle has spent enough time with Detective Kate Beckett and her team to realize that, for every case, the beginning of the answer begins with one domino falling. And usually, that domino doesn't seem relevant, and often turns out to be a red herring. But it doesn't matter. That's the thing about dominos. When one falls, it is never alone. It starts an avalanche of activity. That's what this revelation is. Simply the first domino that he knows is going to show him something new.

His joy is short-lived, however, as he hears the tell-tale sounds of the helicopter blades approaching. Simba and Nala, smart beasts that they are, hear it, too. And they know what this means. Both animals jump up, and now start pacing, horrific rumblings gliding along the brush.

_**Half a mile away, approaching fast by helicopter, May 18, 2014**_

His heart is pounding and his palms – tied together with nylon straps – are sweating. Former chopper pilot Phil Blackman knows that he has only minutes left in this world. Many a person has warned him during the past twenty years that his mean streak would – someday – cost him the ultimate price. And he has no illusions, 'someday' has come to collect in full.

In retrospect, it was a stupid thing to risk Richard Castle getting hurt – or worse – with his little stunt. He knew he was already on thin ice with the bitch anyway. But it is too late to cry now. The twins showed no mercy with the beating they gave him, and he knows the lions will show even less. It's a hell of a way to go, but Phil isn't going to go down without a fight. A tremendous athlete in high school and college, Blackman still has a killer vertical jump. He's counting on it saving him from a fate worse than death. Oh, he knows he's going to die – there is no doubt about that. But dammit – he's going to choose his way out of this world.

The compound comes into view, and he considers what he will give to Castle. It's not like he hates the man, and he can't even blame the man for what is getting ready to happen. This is all on him, and he's long prepared for this. But he wants to hurt his soon-to-be former employer, and he considers the best way to do that. He's only going to have seconds, he knows. He's done enough drops to know how quickly the beasts below take action. Five seconds, ten tops, before they are on top of him.

His heart pounds harder now, as all of the sudden the chopper slows to a hover and begins the slow descent of death. The door flies open, and one of the twins – hell, he could never tell them apart – has grabbed him.

"Nothing personal, Phil," the twin tells him. "You know this is just business."

They are no more than eight feet off the ground now. Soft brush below – he can survive the fall from this height, and still do what he has to do. The lions are thirty, forty feet away, giving the chopper distance. Smart beasts. They know this drill. They will wait until the chopper has lifted away before they start the dance.

"Yeah, just business," Blackman repeats with a smile, and then leaps from the hovering craft, to the surprise of his captor. He hits the ground, rolling with the landing, and is on his feet immediately, sprinting for the fence.

_**Back on the ground in the compound on one of the Tangier Islands, May 18, 2014**_

The chopper is hovering, and Castle – although he knows what is coming – cannot tear his eyes away. At least not yet. He feels like a rubbernecking driver. He knows he shouldn't watch, but he's glued to the scene in front of him. It will be the best decision he has ever made.

He watches Blackman fall – or hell, did he actually jump out?!

He doesn't recognize the man. Yeah, he had seen him earlier from a bit of a distance, but then the man wore sunglasses, a pilot helmet and a vicious grin. This evening, he wears none of these.

Now on the ground, the man runs directly toward Castle – directly toward the barbed wire fence.

"_What the hell does he think he is going to do?"_ Castle thinks to himself.

Blackman is less than ten feet from the fence, running at a full sprint. The lions are now giving chase and will be upon him in seconds.

"Richard Castle," the man screams at the top of his lungs. "You're in the Tangier Islands. Chesapeake Bay"

With that last breath, Phil Blackman, former athlete and – for the most part – rotten human being, launches himself upward onto the fence. His tied hands grab a hold of the barbed wire, his legs dangling roughly three feet off the ground. In one final movement, screaming in agony from the angry barbs in his hands, he cries out.

"Good luck, dude," Blackman says, and pulls himself upward, placing his neck atop one of the barbed strands, and sticks his head through. With a release of his hands, he falls straight down a foot or so, hanging now by his shredded neck. Castle watches fearfully, less than four feet away from the dying man, watching the life flicker out of his eyes as his blood spurts out toward the writer.

The female – Nala – is already upon him, standing on her hind legs, her powerful claws tugging him downward. A second later, her mate joins the fray, and for a few horrific seconds, Richard Castle wonders if these two beasts are going to tear the entire fence down.

Seconds later, a very dead Phil Blackman is dragged off the fence and away into the trees, leaving a stunned and now completely shell-shocked Richard Castle. He stares at the dripping blood and hanging flesh that now adorn this small piece of his cage. It takes another half minute for the shock to wear off and the magnitude of the moment to register.

"_You're in the Tangier Islands. Chesapeake Bay."_

Day six has given the novelist two gifts. A video camera and a location. And a dead man he knows that he owes a huge debt to.


	8. Chapter 8

**Monster: Chapter 8**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 7: At the 12**__**th**__** Precinct in New York City, Early Morning, May 19, 2014**_

"There's nothing here," Kate laments, watching the video for the – she has lost count. She – and the boys as well – have been counting on the old axiom that criminals can't help but leave clues – whether consciously or unconsciously. It's just the way of the universe. But after a series of replay and reviews that would make ESPN proud, they have nothing. Not. One. Damn. Thing.

"We have looked at this from every angle, and so far, it is nothing more than what it appears to be," Captain Victoria Gates comments. "A ransom video without a ransom demand."

"A pre-ransom," Detective Esposito proclaims.

Kevin Ryan, fellow detective and best friend of Javier Esposito, remains quiet. He has seen the evidence, or lack thereof. Everything in his gut tells him they are not going to see a ransom demand – at least not the traditional monetary form of ransom. Something tells him that this is very different. It's personal. He can't put his finger on it, but he can't shake this haunting feeling of dread either.

"What if this isn't what we are thinking?" he asks the group at large inside Captain Gates' office. "What if this isn't a traditional kidnapping for money? What if it's personal? What if whoever did this is just trying to hurt Castle. Or you," he finishes, his eyes squarely on Kate.

"We've considered that," she admits, "but then why send a video? A video that shows him enjoying himself? Why would that be cause for worry?"

"Are you worried, Kate?" Ryan asks her.

"Well, yes but –"

"Then they've accomplished their goal," he tells her.

"Uh . . . did everyone just happen to forget about the lions in that video?" Esposito asks aloud. "That's not exactly –"

"No one has forgotten the lions, Javi," Kevin interrupts. "My point is, whoever did this has us chasing our tails. We're thinking about why this was sent to the mayor, what's the point of the lions, why does Castle look like he hasn't a care in the world . . . we have lots of questions without a single answer. We're shooting in the dark here. What if that's the point? What if that's what they wanted all along?"

"Okay, but why would anyone do that?" Captain Gates asks. "For what purpose?"

"I have no idea," Kevin admits. "But our lack of ideas or explanation does not render something to be wrong. We're still stuck on square zero and we are seven days into this now."

The group is silent for a moment, when Kate offers an idea.

"What if we take one more look, all of us, at the –"

"No," Esposito interrupts. "Sorry Beckett, but Kev here is right. You said it yourself. There's nothing here. But there is something somewhere, and we haven't seen it yet because we haven't been searching for it."

For a moment, there is silence in Captain Gates' office as the team considers Esposito's words. As with the past few days, the tensions immediately ratchet upwards as the lack of evidence, the lack of direction continually befuddles the team that is far more accustomed to finding clues others miss, seeing things others miss.

The ringing phone startles everyone, and Kate finds herself almost jumping out of her own skin.

"Dammit, we are wound way too tight," Esposito mutters as their captain walks to her desk and answers the phone.

"You don't say," Gates comments, giving a glance to the team. "Are you sending it –"

She is interrupted, and continues to listen, never taking her eyes off the three in her office. Without a goodbye, she hangs up the phone.

"Gather your stuff," she tells them. "A new video was delivered to the mayor this morning. We're off to his office to take a look."

_**Day 7: On an isolated island in the Tangier Islands, Early Evening, May 19, 2014**_

Richard Castle sits in his now very familiar spot, under the large tree on the southern side of the compound. He is alone this morning. His friends – no doubt – are sleeping off yet another meal. A meal that has put a new ray of hope into Richard Castle.

"Probably won't see them all day," he thinks to himself. In a warped, highly illogical way, he misses his companions. But the added solitude this morning – for once – is good. He needs this time alone. After five days of captivity with no answers, and to be honest – no good questions either – he finally has something to sink his teeth into; something to wrap his mind around.

First, there is a video camera here somewhere, and later today, when the sun is going down, he is going to start looking again. He doesn't want to alert anyone to the fact that he knows there is a camera, so he's waiting until it is dark, and even then he is going to try his best to make it look as nonchalant as possible. What he does with the camera when he finds out – well, he hasn't figured that piece out yet.

"But the one thing I know," he tells himself out loud, "is that where there is a camera, there is power."

This fact – more than anything else – is what excites the detained novelist. Power. Electricity. If there is a camera, he doubts that it is battery powered or solar powered. Too many variables for his captors to worry about. No, the best option is that the camera is highly concealed, and the wires drawing power even more so. He hopes and prays that whatever he finds is on _this_ side of the fence. Over there, it does him no good. On_ this_ side however – well, that is something he can use.

Yesterday, after the lions were fed but well before it got entirely too dark, he began to search the interior of the cabin. He used the notion of him writing on the walls – something he has been doing pretty much every day – as a ruse to check the walls, to search for something concealed. He hadn't found anything, much to his chagrin. That would have been entirely too easy, he realizes. Moreover, the lighting for any type of videotaping is bad inside, with just the single, small window providing light. He's convinced whoever is watching wouldn't have been able to notice him feeling under the weather while inside. Yeah, more likely than not, the camera is outside.

So he sits, this morning, alone, deep in his thoughts. He will search for the camera again later as the sun is going down. But for now, a single thought consumes him.

_The Tangier Islands in Chesapeake Bay._

That's where the unfortunate man said he is. He has no idea what his name was, who he was, or why the man chose to give him this information. He can only assume that he was an unfortunate witness, seeing something he wasn't supposed to see, hearing something he wasn't supposed to hear. Or – and this is a possibility that just occurred to him seconds ago, perhaps he was a part of the group that kidnapped him, but had somehow run afoul of his colleagues.

No matter – the information he has been given is clearly invaluable. He knows – generally – where he is. Being a novelist, and a man who constantly asks questions, performs research and discovery, Castle knows of these islands. He's never been here before, never necessarily even wanted to come here. Nothing against the small group of islands, but there are so many other places on his list of places to go before he kicks the bucket.

He chuckles that this 'bucket kicking' may come a little sooner than he ever imagined, but pushes the thought out of his mind. He uses his finger to draw in the grass and dirt that he sits on, trying to visualize exactly where the islands are. There are a few island chains in the Chesapeake Bay, the Tangiers just being one of them, almost in the middle if memory serves. It occurs to him that this knowledge may come in handy. Two immediate thoughts come to mind.

"If I get – no, scratch that – gotta think positive," he reminds himself. "_When_ I get out of here, and I'm _going_ to get out of here, I need to be going west, east or north. All three are toward the mainland." He recalls from maps that going south could risk putting him into the Atlantic Ocean, and if that happens – well, cancel Christmas.

He recalls from his research that the islands are small - less than a few miles across, if that, if he remembers correctly. In his mind he imagines the best case scenario: He In his mind, he gets through the fence – somehow – makes it to the coastline of the island without getting eaten – somehow – finds a boat and makes his way toward the mainland – somehow.

"That's an awful lot of somehows," he laughs out loud, realizing the sheer lunacy of such a plan. It's outrageous. But these are outrageous circumstances he finds himself in.

Best case, of course, is he gets out of here and finds civilization, finds someone who could help. He frowns at that thought. If he were writing this book, the people on this deserted island would be in on it. They'd either be paid off, or too terrified to help, knowing the fate that would await them. Hell, for all he knows, whoever else that might be living on this island could be the source of meals for his friends out in the trees somewhere.

The second thought that keeps finding its way into his mind combines the two pieces of information.

"_I'm on one of the Tangier Islands, and whoever took me is watching me with a camera," _he thinks to himself, and smiles._ "If they are asking a ransom – which is logical, because I'm not exactly poor – well, if they are asking for a ransom, then Kate or Mother will want proof that I am alive. They won't part with my money without some assurance that I'm still alive."_

It follows that if they are keeping tabs on him, they probably have already sent a video to Kate or Martha. And the fact that he is still here means one of a few things.

First – they aren't paying the ransom. That's not even worth the thought. He knows that both women would pay for his freedom in the proverbial New York minute, no questions asked once they had proof that he is alive.

Second – they haven't paid the ransom – either because they are still pulling it together or because an amount hasn't been given yet. The latter is more likely, because weeks ago, he had made sure that Kate knew how to access his money in the event something happened. He had been updating his will, and the topic of money naturally came up. Neither of them counted on anything like this, though.

If they haven't given an amount, then that means they may send another tape – or multiple tapes. Who knows what their motivations are.

Third – and finally – they've paid the ransom, but his kidnappers have elected to leave him here. Given the fact that he has no idea who has taken him, and has no idea where to even start, well, this is the worst case scenario. Because he will never be found, in this case. Not alive, at least.

He stands, as the thoughts barrel through his head, and walks toward the water well. Dousing himself with a bucket, he moves back toward the southern side, and begins his daily morning regimen. Sit-ups, push-ups, and jogging. He smiles as he walks, knowing that he is up to about a mile and a half now. His legs are tired this morning. He knows he is pushing muscles that he hasn't used in years. Quite a few years. The possibilities continue to dart through his thoughts, as he begins push-ups.

Up. "Find me Kate."

Down. "Don't give up, Kate."

Up. "I'm still here."

Down: "I'm not giving up."

Up . . .

_**Day 7: At the Mayor's office in New York City, Mid-Morning, May 19, 2014**_

"When did this arrive, Mr. Mayor?" Kate asks as the team sits down inside the mayor's office. He points their attention to the monitor.

"Maybe half an hour ago," he tells them. "I called as soon as I received it. Haven't looked at it myself," he continues.

"Why not?" Captain Gates asks, with surprise.

"Evidence," the Mayor responds, affably. "I figured you and your team would want to see it as is – unopened – before I looked at it and possibly ruined anything."

Kate nods her head, impressed that Castle's friend would even go down this path of thinking. Smart man. She also notices the worry on the mayor's face.

"Let's open it up," Kevin Ryan says, picking up the envelope, asking for permission with his eyes.

"Go ahead, Detective Ryan," Captain Gates tells him.

Kevin Ryan opens the envelope carefully. He's not worried about unleashing anything – so far, there is nothing to indicate that anyone is trying to attack the mayor – or any of the detectives here, for that matter. Seconds later, another DVD sits in the hands of the detective.

"DVD player is right there," the mayor tells him, pointing to the unit. Ryan inserts the video and hits the PLAY button. Everyone's attention is drawn to the monitor. Suddenly, a title appears on the screen.

_A Day in the Life of Richard Castle._

"This isn't funny," Kate Beckett comments, her face reddening and nostrils slightly flaring. She isn't sure what she expected. Okay, actually she knows exactly what she expected . . . what she was hoping for. A ransom letter. A ransom video. This doesn't appear to be either.

The title fades, and the strains of Bobby McFerrin's voice can be heard in the background.

_Here's a little song I wrote_

_You might want to sing it, note for note_

_Don't worry, Be happy!_

In fades the image of Richard Castle, sitting in what appears to be shade. He is just a couple of feet from the fence, sitting calmly. He doesn't appear stressed. He doesn't appear worried. He actually . . . is he actually smiling?

The two lions sit across from him. They look calm. They don't appear to be agitated.

"He's . . . he's talking to them," Esposito comments, almost under his breath. Too late, he realizes, as he sees . . . rather, he _feels_ Kate's eyes bore into him.

"You're right," Mayor Weldon agrees, offer a quick sympathetic glance to Kate Beckett. He knows this is tough on her, and seeing her fiancée has to be both comforting – in that he is alive – and completely frustrating in that he seems to be . . . enjoying himself?

"He is talking to them," the Mayor continues. "And they don't seem to be acting very aggressive to him at all."

"It's almost like he is . . . it's almost like he's off on a safari somewhere," Kevin Ryan mentions. As much as Kate hates the idea, she has to admit her friend is right. The thought of Castle out of country on a safari, camping out in an area where the dangerous animals are fenced in . . . yeah, that's exactly what this looks like.

"Here's the problem though, folks," Esposito counters. "Who is shooting the video? And more importantly, _why_ are they shooting the video? If this isn't a kidnapping, then why rub this in our faces? Why rub it in her face?" he finishes, pointing to Kate.

"Castle wouldn't do this, guys," Kate jumps in, struggling to believe the very words coming from her mouth. "He wouldn't . . ."

The tears come fast, far too quickly for her to contain. She turns her head away from her friends, and feels – surprisingly – the hand of Captain Victoria Gates on hers.

"He wouldn't do this _to you_, Kate," she says softly, using her first name.

"More than that, Kate," the mayor adds, also using the more familiar term to soften the news. "He wouldn't do this to Alexis."

The mayor knows Richard Castle very well, probably better than anyone in the room with the exception of Kate Beckett. They are personal friends – their families know each other. He knows that his friend loves Kate Beckett. He knows his friend has chased her for years. But he also knows how much deeper the bond is that Castle has with his daughter.

"No way would he run off and leave Alexis, do this to her," he continues. "No offense against you, Kate, he loves you – trust me on that. But Alexis? Alexis has been his world for almost twenty years. He could no more do something like this to her than he could stop breathing. No, this is a kidnapping, my friends. Any time – even one second – that you waste thinking otherwise is exactly that. Wasted time. And we can't afford that."

Kate smiles through her tears. She is thankful for the hand on hers, and she is thankful for the words she has just heard. The words ring true. She knows how Castle feels about his daughter. The fact that his daughter is now a young woman is immaterial. His feelings are the same. Still, the video is pretty damaging. He doesn't seem flustered. He doesn't seem trapped. He doesn't seem to be . . . captive.

"Let's look at the evidence," Esposito begins. "Because there is evidence here."

The team refocuses back on the detective, who begins to point a few things out.

"First – look at the time stamp on this video," he begins. I'm sure they wanted this time stamp here so we would see the date. The date is yesterday."

"Okay, so what?" Captain Gates asks the question everyone else is thinking. "Does it matter if it was yesterday or two days ago, or –"

"Yes, sir," he interrupts. "It matters very much. At least now we know that Castle is still here – most likely either on the east coast or, worst case, somewhere in the central time zone."

"How do you figure, bud?" Detective Ryan asks.

"This video was shot yesterday, 2:13 in the afternoon," Esposito replies with a smile. "Any crazy thoughts we have that he is in Africa on a safari – look, Federal Express or not, no way they are getting a video to us overnight from that far away."

The team nods in unison, as Ryan chips in with his thoughts.

"Could be west coast, but it would have to be Southern California, may Arizona," Ryan mentions. "He's wearing nothing but those boxers again and the upper west coast is still a bit chilly for that, wouldn't you think?"

"Boxers!" Kate exclaims, a bit louder than she has intended.

"What about them, Detective Beckett?" the Mayor wonders aloud.

"They are the same boxers," she replies, tapping her fingers on the tabletop. "Same shoes, same boxers," she finishes and is ready to speak again when the Mayor interrupts.

"Look at his face," he tells them. He's sideways to the camera, facing the fence.

"He hasn't shaved," Kate notices.

"That's odd," their captain muses aloud.

"It's more than odd, sir," Kate tells her. "Castle is . . . well, Rick is –"

"You can say it, Kate," Esposito laughs, breaking the tensions a bit. "We all know Castle . . ."

"Yeah," she allows herself a chuckle. "Rick is meticulous about his looks, you all know that."

"Don't we," Mayor Robert Weldon smiles as well.

"I may be reaching here," Kate continues, "I admit that, but – to me – the only way Castle doesn't shave his face –"

"Or comb his hair!" Captain Gates adds. "Look at his hair – it looks like he's been swimming and just let it air dry."

"Maybe there's a pool," Ryan wonders. "Probably has a bar somewhere and –"

"No!" Esposito blurts out. "Don't wonder, don't play what if," he tells the team. "Stick to the evidence in front of us. We don't know if there is a pool. We don't know if there is a bar serving drinks. All we know is what we see."

"And what _I_ see," Kate continues, picking up confidence with each word, "is a mentally strong man, being held captive, making the most of the situation, trying to stay calm. The Richard Castle I know wouldn't be freaking out. He'd be pondering, wondering, thinking, yeah even playing air guitar. But I also know that if he _could_ change clothes, he would, trust me on that. And if he _could _shave, he would, trust me on that also."

"So the fact that he hasn't done those things tells us that maybe he _can't_ do those things," Esposito adds.

"And that means he is being held captive," Ryan agrees

"But then why no ransom?" the Mayor asks.

"Again – like I said earlier," Ryan replies. "I don't think this is a ransom kidnapping. I think it's meant to hurt, not make money."

"So . . ."Kate considers her words carefully, pulling the thoughts together. "So let's assume that he is somewhere east of the Mississippi. That's a big area to consider."

"Look at the evidence," Esposito reminds everyone.

"What are you thinking, Javier?" Kate asks.

"First, let's get someone who knows plants, trees, stuff like that –"

"A horticulturist," the mayor chimes in.

"Yeah, one of those guys," Esposito smiles, undaunted. "Let them look at the videos, focusing on the greenery. We don't know squat about agriculture and what-not, but who knows – perhaps something we see in the video is . . . is –"

"Indigenous to a specific area," Kate nods, appreciating the fact that her friends are now morphing into serious detective mode.

"Second," Kate continues with her own thoughts now, "let's put the word out, rather – the question – Who in the world is missing two lions right now?" she asks. "Their numbers are dwindling, and they don't fit in overhead storage," she smiles, drawing nervous laughter from everyone.

"It's a good idea," Ryan agrees. "Check the zoos – every single one of them in the country. It will take time, I know, but if a freaking lion disappears, that's got to be news somewhere."

"We'll also check incoming manifests from the past month," Captain Gates adds. "See if someone brought any in to the country."

"Good idea," Kate agrees. She realizes that someone who runs a kidnapping scheme is a criminal, and so that person may bypass immigration and habitat laws – but they have to start somewhere. Anyway, just asking the questions sometimes turns things up.

"Look," Kate says, standing up now and feeling stronger than she has in days. "It's time for us to stop acting like friends, liked grieving and fearful loved ones. It's time for us to start acting like detectives," she finishes.

"All right," Captain Gates says, reaching over to the remote control and hitting PLAY again. "Let's look at this again – as detectives."


	9. Chapter 9

**Monster: Chapter 9**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 8: At Richard Castle's Loft, Early Morning, May 20, 2014**_

Kate Beckett sits in the loft – her loft with one Richard Castle – staring at the large computer monitor. At one time, this monitor had been used – unbeknownst to her – by her fiancée as a tool in his efforts to discover who her mother's killer was. This morning, however, as she sits with his daughter in the den area, the same monitor now is being put to better use. She needs to discover what happened to her fiancée. She needs to find Richard Castle.

She has taken a few days off – a leave of absence, Captain Gates had suggested – to allow at least one of them on the team to focus their efforts entirely on finding Castle. As much as she might want to, Captain Gates cannot allow her team to be used exclusively to search for the novelist. At least not officially, that is. Hence Kate's sudden leave of absence. She will stay connected to Javi and Kevin, no doubt – but she knows that her captain has come under scrutiny in the past couple of days, as a couple of cases have begun to drag.

"Let_ us_ work the cases, Kate," Gates had told her, and the team yesterday. "We will continue to search for clues for Mr. Castle, believe me. But we need to also show some progress on this one case in particular," she had said, dropping a folder in front of Esposito and Ryan.

"You, however," Gates had continued, "can focus exclusively on finding our friend if I place you on leave of absence . . . which I did as of one minute ago."

So here she sits, with Alexis, staring at the monitor, at the names she has created with the young woman's assistance. She has considered scratching a couple of names off, but has decided to keep all possibilities open. One name in particular – the first name on her board – is painful.

Bob Weldon.

Yeah, he's on the list. The Mayor of New York City is a close personal friend of Richard Castle. But he's also a politician. A long-time politician who at one time, had visions far bigger than the city of New York. The governor's office was in his windshield until a scandal tore the wheels off that bus. She wonders – again – if the mayor holds Castle to blame for the very clear ceiling on his political career. She doesn't want to think this way, but she continually wonders – as do her friends – why the videos of Castle are being sent to him, and not her, or the young woman who sits next to her.

She trusts no one at this point.

Senator William Bracken is on the list, of course. He is always an option, but he is in jail right now, with much bigger issues on his mind. His preliminary hearing begins next week. He's been incarcerated for two or three months now, having waived his right for a speedy trial. That in itself told her – and everyone – that he has something in the works. She'll know soon enough, as she has already been subpoenaed – notified that her testimony is being requested by the prosecution. It's unclear right now whether the preliminary hearing is a precursor to a grand jury, or the ultimate trial. Regardless, William Bracken is otherwise occupied at the moment.

The third name on the list is one Kyra Murphy, nee Blaine. She stifles a quick chill as she considers this name again. Kyra is the one woman from Richard Castle's past who Kate has never quite come to grips with. The one woman whose reappearance the detective has always dreaded. Almost five years ago, fate had pulled Richard Castle back into Kyra's orbit the day before the woman's wedding, complete with a clandestine rooftop meeting and a we're-clearly-more-than-friends kiss. Would fate be so fickle, so premediated as to do it again, to put those two back in each other's gravitational pull? Only this time, on the day of Castle's marriage, reversing the previous roles.

The worst part is that Kyra is – and has been, for the past two weeks – conveniently out of country on business, according to husband Greg. For a woman who doesn't believe in coincidences, this is just too much of one for Kate's liking. Kyra Murphy scares Kate, because of all of the names on the board right now, Kyra's is the only one whose motive for taking Richard Castle would not be revenge. No, her motive would be far more personal. Desire. Love, even. If it is her, if Kyra is behind this or a part of this – well that would explain Castle's behavior on the videos.

"I don't believe it is her," Alexis tells her for the third time this morning. "Forget how she might feel about dad. This is my dad you are talking about. He wouldn't do this." Alexis has been firmly against this name, because of what it would say about her father. But in the interest of finding her father, she has allowed the name to remain. Because she understands they can leave no stone unturned.

The last name – two names together actually – on the board are the ones that both Kate and Alexis keep coming back to. The names that – for obvious reasons – frighten both women more than any of the others. They are the names that Kate and Alexis are discussing at this moment.

Jerry Tyson and Dr. Kelly Neiman.

Kate can't get the damn song out of her mind. It rolls along her hills and valleys, no matter how hard she tries to delete the tune. And the lyrics.

_We'll meet again, Don't know where, Don't know when_

_But I know, _

_We'll meet again_

Kate remembers the games that Tyson played with Castle. He's a dangerous psychopath, for sure, yeah. But he changes around Castle. He becomes more subtle, more psychological.

"You said he had dad dead to rights in the motel, but let him live," Alexis recounts.

"Not killing him allowed Rick to live with his failure to stop him, according to your father," Kate explains. "That's how Tyson thinks when it comes to your dad."

"And then he framed him," Alexis recalls again. "Actually visited him when Dad was behind bars."

"Yes," Kate agrees. "So kidnapping him, taking him on the day of our wedding – no, taking him on the day of _his_ wedding – yeah, this reeks of Tyson and Neiman."

"So, if they are our best bet, then where do we start?" Alexis asks, her frustrations mounting. It's been hard on the young woman, and Kate hates that she doesn't have answers for the younger woman. Her skin seems even paler against her red strands of hair than normal. God forbid, Alexis looks older today, and not the graceful aging kind of older. The stress is taking its toll, that is clear to see.

"I wish I knew, Alexis," Kate tells her. "But that is what you and I have to figure out, right now. If this is Tyson, where would he take Castle?"

_**Day 8: On the Island in the Tangier Islands, Early Morning, May 20, 2014**_

Richard Castle sits along the fence, across from the two lions. He didn't see them at all yesterday, and finds their companionship comforting this morning. It's the second day after their feeding, and they still seem calm. He doesn't know how long this disposition will last, and he is already fearing the next visit from the chopper.

Last night's efforts to find the video camera proved fruitless. He covered the exterior of the cabin, the walls, the door – nothing. He played particular attention the water well and the surrounding area. By the time he got to the tree, it was far too dark. Regardless, nothing has been obvious and he is beginning to fear that the infernal device is – in fact – on the other side of the fence. If that's the case, then he is screwed royally. He can't get over there, and if he can't get over there, then any wild hair notions he concocts are pointless.

Searching for the camera last night game him longer opportunities to consider exactly who put him here, and the name that continues to come up is one Jerry Tyson. This would be so like Tyson, to grab him on the day of his wedding. But here's the problem.

Tyson isn't here. He's not here gloating, explaining his master plan, relishing in Castle's plight. Of all the criminals that Castle has come up against during his time with Kate Beckett and the detectives of the 12th Precinct, Tyson is the one who comes closest to the megalomaniac villains that Castle fell in love with as a young reader and budding author.

Tyson is the one who stood, facing Castle and Kevin Ryan in the motel, pontificating about how he had beaten them, how Castle had to live with his failure.

Tyson is the one who stood outside the jail cell, reveling in Castle's incarceration, needing to be there to twist the knife, to make sure Castle _knew_ who it was who had beaten him yet again.

Everything screams that Tyson is behind this . . . with the exception of the fact that Tyson hasn't shown himself, hasn't come gloating, hasn't come beating his chest.

This kidnapping is so very much Jerry Tyson. The absence of a mocking Tyson, however, is so very much unlike Jerry Tyson.

"What do you two think?" Castle smiles, as he asks his over-the-fence companions. "Maybe if he shows up, I can introduce you to him."

_**Day 8: Noon at Castle's Loft, May 20, 2014**_

Alexis Castle stifles a yawn, her mouth growing wide. Kate snickers, bringing an arm punch from her almost-stepdaughter.

"You okay there," Kate smiles, offering a moment of levity for the two women. They have been at it all morning, hashing and re-hashing their thoughts and suspicions. Everything seems to point to Jerry Tyson at this point, with the single exception that he has not shown himself. History strongly suggests that if he is behind it, he will make his entry at some point – and it is surprising that he has not already done so.

If he is behind this.

The doorbell startles both women, and Alexis stands to answer, but Kate's hand on her shoulder forces her back into a sitting position.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Kate whispers. They don't get many visitors at chez Castle, and so she is immediately on guard.

"No," Alexis answers, realizing Kate's thought track.

Kate walks to the door and looks through the small viewing hole, and smiles.

"It's okay," she smiles back at the young woman as she opens the door. Detectives Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan stand smiling back – and she can tell that they have found something.

Finally.

Both men enter without a word. Seeing Alexis, Ryan offers a greeting for the young woman.

"Hey Alexis," he calls out as she walks over and gives both men a long hug. "Got something for you both," he continues.

"What do you mean?" Kate asks, steering the men into the den where she and Alexis have been working.

"We did a search for the east coast to see if any zoos, or wildlife sanctuaries have reported missing lions," Esposito begins, and everyone laughs a bit at the sheer lunacy of the idea. "We also included individuals as well."

"Why would you do that?" Alexis asks, confused. Zoos and sanctuaries she can understand.

"Because," Kevin Ryan replies, "believe it or not, there are a few states in the country that allow people to have a license to keep a lion."

"You can't be serious," Alexis counters, trying to get her mind around such a concept. Kevin Ryan sees the conflict, and chuckles as he continues.

"You'd be surprised, Alexis, how many families in the United States have lions, tigers –"

"You'd better not say bears," Kate interrupts with a chuckle.

"Owning exotic wildlife is something that more than a few people in this country seem to get off on," Esposito states, matter-of-factly. "In a few states, if you have a license, well, you can have some pretty weird stuff . . ."

"Anyway," Ryan continues, "we did find something."

Both Kate and Alexis are all ears now, anxious for any new developments. This morning has been somewhat fruitful for them in terms of figuring out the 'who' – at least some possibilities. But the 'why' and 'how' still escape them. As well as the 'where'.

"Last month, a pretty decent sized boat was reported stolen," Esposito begins. "The large craft was owned by one Peter Marks," he continues, gazing at his notes. "Marks was making a delivery down the Chesapeake Bay when he encountered – and I kid you not –"

"Wait for it . . . " Ryan laughs.

"Pirates," Esposito continues with a snicker.

"Javi, Kevin, please . . ." Kate sighs. It's not like her friends to make jokes when they know the place she finds herself.

"It's not joke, Kate," Esposito continues, still smiling. "A good, old-fashioned Errol Flynn sea-jacking, right off the shores of the good old U.S.," he states.

"Tossed a dinghy overboard, and the captain and his four-man crew along with it," Ryan adds.

"And why don't you take a wild guess as to what was on the manifest," Esposito continues.

"Tell me you aren't going to say a lion," Kate counters, shaking her head. It couldn't be this easy . . .

"No," Esposito replies. "Not a lion."

"_Two_ lions," Ryan laughs, as both men share a fist bump. "We followed the trail when we discovered that a zoo down in Norfolk, Virginia reported two lions missing last month," Esposito begins. "It didn't get a lot of publicity because the lions weren't zoo property at the time. They were waiting on the new additions to their collection to be delivered from a wildlife preserve in Maryland, near the coast. When it didn't get to them, they reported it. We followed the trail, beginning with who they were expecting the delivery from. Marks is a local guy down at Virginia Beach – they were using him for transport."

"It made the news down in the Virginia area simply because the zoo reported it," Kevin Ryan continues. "It was big news down there. Not so much up here in New York. Especially since no one died. Not big enough news."

Kate nods, her eyes searching back and forth between her friends. This is great news, simply because it is something new. But she senses there is more.

"So, here is what we have to ask ourselves," Esposito chimes in. "If I am going to steal a lion –"

"Two lions," Ryan laughs.

"If I am going to steal two lions, how far am I going to take them?" Esposito asks the group. "How far am I willing to transport the little beasties before I start fearing for my life?"

"The fact that they confiscated them in the bay makes us wonder just how far they would take them," Ryan adds. "There are islands in the Chesapeake Bay. There are mainland coastlines. If I want to take lions to Florida, I'm going to take lions that are closer than Maryland. If I'm going to take lions to California, I'm looking on the west coast for my source. The fact that they took them – on the water – instead of while being transported on land – well, we have to consider the likelihood –"

"That their final destination would be along that coastline," Kate interjects, now fully into their line of thinking.

"Or . . . or one of the islands there," Alexis adds, now moving toward the computer. All eyes are on the monitor as the young woman googles the Chesapeake Bay, and pulls up a map image. Finding no islands there, she alters the search. She types in 'chesapeake bay islands' in the search field. Smiles begin to form around the desk as the results pour in.

_Holland Island, Poplar Island, Tighman Island, Kent Island, Bloodsworth Island, Gibson Island, Barren Island, Tangier Island, Coaches Neck Island, Troy Island . . ._

"Where do we start?" Kate asks, her momentary feeling of euphoria becoming tempered with each island they scroll through.

"We search for the most secluded possibilities – small population, limited tourists," Ryan replies. "We start narrowing the list by thinking like a kidnapper. If I don't want to be found, which of these are the best possibilities?"

"I'd want seclusion, I'd want privacy, and I'd want to make sure that it was easy for me to get in and out, but hard as hell for anyone else," Esposito adds.

"An island would give you all of those," Alexis adds, her excitement starting to grow. Finally, some progress on the front. She and Kate have an idea of who could be behind this, and now Kevin and Javier have come up with a decent idea of potentially where her father could be. It's a large area, yeah, but it is more than they had when she woke up this morning.

"Who else knows about this, guys?" Kate asks.

"Just the four of us right now," Ryan replies. "Gates wants us focused on the Miller case, so we haven't told her what we found just yet."

"Don't," Kate instructs her friends, surprising them.

"What?" Esposito asks with surprise in his voice. To his way of thinking, the more minds that are focused on this, the better.

"Why not?" he asks. "Captain Gates – and heck, event the mayor – both of them might have something to add here."

Kate stands, and walks to the window, staring outside. She considers her next words carefully before continuing. Yeah, Captain Gates put her on leave, theoretically so that she could work 'her' case. But that also means that Gates has put distance between Kate and her boys. In terms of finding Castle, that's not advantageous. Was that intentional? After all, one of the names on the board is Mayor Robert Weldon. And Weldon seems to have some history with their captain.

Her mind made up, she turns back to the group.

"Alexis," she tells the young woman. "Pull up the board you and I have put together, and show it to Javier and Kevin. You guys need to see what we are thinking."


	10. Chapter 10

**Monster: Chapter 10**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 9: The Early Evening News Broadcast in New York City, May 21, 2014**_

"_We open our broadcast this evening with our first story – and we warn you, viewer discretion is advised. The hunt for missing New York mystery author Richard Castle has taken a decidedly dangerous and violent turn today, with the discovery of four heavily mutilated bodies in an alley between West 46__th__ Street and West 45__th__ Street, near Shubert Aly. Whether intentional or by ironic coincidence, the bodies were discovered just behind The Richard Rodgers Theatre off Broadway. Richard Rodgers, of course, is the given birth name of the missing novelist in question."_

"_According to unnamed NYPD sources, an anonymous tip called in to alert the police as to the location of the bodies, which were discovered in various stages of mutilation ranging from violent facial wounds to actual dismemberment of body parts. Each of the victims are members of the various known crime families in the city, and apparently no element of the underworld is being left unaffected."_

"_Tying them back to the missing novelist, one of the bodies had a large white posterboard literally stapled to his bare chest. Written on the posterboard were the words, _

'_Where is Richard Castle? Someone knows where he is.'"_

"_Police are asking for witnesses, and searching area surveillance cameras, but it is clear that the situation with one Richard Castle has now escalated. We go now to Mr. Castle's home here in the city, to Jennifer Saunders. Jennifer?"_

The scene shifts to the street level view of Richard Castle's loft, where street reporter Jennifer Saunders stands with her cameraman, who has just given her the green light.

"_Thank you, Karen. I'm standing outside the famous novelist home, which is just behind me on the upper floor as you can see. Now there has been no word from Mr. Castle, no ransom note, no communications whatsoever for the past ten days beyond two video tapes that sources tell us have been delivered to the NYPD. NYPD resources are not commenting on the existence of these videos. I spoke with his mother, Broadway actress Martha Rodgers a few minutes ago. Understandably, Ms. Rodgers did not want to appear live, but she did make this statement for the family."_

The scene cuts to a pre-recorded session with Martha Rodgers, who speaks to Jennifer.

"_We are saddened by the loss of my son, and frustrated that nothing new has been learned about his disappearance."_

Martha then turns her gaze from the reporter to the camera lens.

"_But if you can hear me, Richard, wherever you are, we love you, and we are praying for your safe return."_

Jennifer looks up from her notes and her eyes find the camera once again, as she begins her closing statement.

"_Impassioned words from the obviously despondent mother of the Richard Castle, but it is clear, Karen, that someone out there is doing far more than just praying for Mr. Castle's return. It does make you wonder if today's gruesome findings prove to be a one-time event, or if this is the beginning of a more pro-active and violent search effort for the missing author."_

_**Day 9: Half an hour later, in a recently abandoned building in New York City, May 21, 2014**_

"I swear to you, I don't know _nothing_, man!" the Robbie Morris screams. The newly formed hole in in the terrified mobster's knee, courtesy of the silencer-equipped pistol has him shrieking in agony as he sits tied to the chair, his arms secured tightly behind him. He rocks back and forth from the pain, now realizing how little time he has left on the planet.

He glances next to him at the corpse of Vinnie Taliferio, lying on the floor, whose lifeless eyes stare back up at him. Poor Vinnie also didn't seem to have the answers the stranger was looking for. Unfortunately for Vinnie, their inquisitor seems to be no stranger to various weapons, and Vinnie was introduced to the tip of an insanely sharp sword, which relieved him of his arm below the elbow. Mercifully, Vinnie's screams ended with a whisper from the same pistol which now is pointed at the left eye of Mr. Morris.

"Please, man, if I knew something, I would tell you, but I don't know nothing. You gotta believe me, man, I just –"

"Robbie – that is your name, right? Robbie," the stranger replies softly. His low guttural tone helps Robbie relieve his bladder yet again. "Look, I don't _gotta_ do anything. You, on the other hand, _gotta_ do a lot more for me to keep you breathing. Do we understand each other now?"

"Yeah, yeah man, I swear, just don't . . ."

Robbie glances down again at the mutilated remains of his friend. He turns his gaze back to the frightening man in black.

"Where is my son, Robbie? That's all I want to know."

"I'm telling you, I don't know your son, and I don't know where he is," Robbie pleads, rocking back and forth again.

The stranger considers his answer for a moment. It's been a long day, and he is understandably tired. No matter, his son is likely far more tired. Just this simple realization makes his mind up for him.

"Wrong answer, son," he says softly, and his pistol spits silent death once more, drilling Robbie Morris with a through and through shot in his left eye. The man slumps over dead, and his assassin kicks the chair over, allowing the man to join his friend on the ground. He turns to the left, hearing the horrified, muffled screams of Jimmy Goodwin, the driver for the two mobsters lying dead below him. He takes a deep breath, and walks toward Jimmy, who is similarly bound, except his hands tied onto the arms of the chair that holds him. He stares down at the terrified man, who is sweating profusely. Both the smell – and the wet crotch in his pants, tells him that the man is already in the proper state for an interrogation. He brushes his wrist across his own forehead.

His disguise is holding well, as he knew it would. First, the sunglasses, which are actually high-resolution night glasses from the Agency, give him both the aura of terror – and the clear vision he needs in the dimly lit room. The fake mustache and the fake beard cover his face, providing the details that anyone he chooses to leave alive will remember. The New York Yankee baseball cap completes the disguise. His only problem, so far, has been remembering to hold his frustration, his temper, and leave someone alive. He promises himself that Jimmy will be that fortunate man.

It's not like him to lose his temper, to lose his vaunted and storied cool. But it's also not like him to lose a son, either. His return from the Middle East late last night had ushered in the news to him of Richard Castle's disappearance. He knew – he has his sources – that his son was getting married. He'd been out of country at the time, but was looking forward to getting back stateside to peruse through the society magazines and television programming that undoubtedly would have captured his son's happy moments.

To hear that not only did the wedding not occur, but that his son was missing? Well, covert case in the interest of national security or not, he had felt that his superiors should have gotten word to him about such a development. He considers how he will deal with Summers and Jenkins when he returns to Langley. For now, however, he returns his mind to the present.

"Now, Jimmy," he tells the frightened man as he rips the tape from his mouth, "first of all –"

Jimmy's screams could be heard by anyone on the same floor – if there were anyone on the floor. As it is, the building has been abandoned for two months now. He pops Jimmy across the face with his pistol, slicing the man's head open along the eyebrow.

"Now Jimmy, that's going to leave a scar," he tells the man as he sticks his silenced weapon into the unfortunate man's open mouth, muffling his screams.

"I need you to shut up for one minute," he tells him, but Jimmy's condition will not allow for quiet right now, so he jams the weapon further into the younger man's throat. Finally, blessed silence reigns in the room with the two men.

"Good, good, let's keep it quiet just like this, Jimmy," he tells him. "Now, first of all, as I was trying to say Jimmy, I am going to let you live. Do you hear me, Jimmy? Do you understand what I am telling you? I am going to let you live. If you understand, nod your head."

The man nods his head rapidly up and down, causing him to gag on the weapon stuffed down his mouth. His captor retrieves the weapon, slowly, cautiously and wipes the wetness from his mouth off his weapon along his pants leg.

"Good. Now, I'm taking this out now, Jimmy, but if you start screaming again, then . . . well, Jimmy, there are a lot of mob drivers in this town. I can always find another one to leave alive."

Jimmy's terrified eyes, now already as large as nickels, grow even larger as he shakes his head horizontally. The pistol is now out of his mouth, and he licks his lips and swallows hard, wondering if the killer in front of him is going to keep his word, or whether he will wind up like his bosses.

"Now Jimmy," Jackson Hunt continues, "I am going to go out on a limb here and assume that since your bosses didn't have the information I am looking for, you probably don't either."

Poor Jimmy, however, has watched his two bosses deliver a negative response and he has watched what happened to the two men who – until half an hour ago – were the scariest men he had ever encountered. This man, however, with his calm detachment and his low voice – this man scares the living shit out of Jimmy, and that is no small feat.

"I'm guessing you are struggling to decide how to answer my questions, so I am going to let you off the hook, Jimmy," Hunt tells him. "Well, let me correct myself. I am _sort of_ going to let you off the hook. Because if you show up unhurt, unharmed with your two bosses in their state of . . . disrepair, well, let me just say that it would not look good for you, Jimmy. Not good at all."

The look on Jimmy's face tells him that his message has been received, understood and verified as accurate. Hunt smiles – actually the first smile he has managed this day, as he looks down at the mob driver.

"So, I am going to do you a favor, Jimmy. I'm going to leave you alive," he tells him, as he whips his pistol across the man's forehead, enlarging the gash above his eye that now leaks blood profusely down the man's face.

"I'm going to leave you alive so that you can give your people a message for me," Hunt says in a monotone voice as he quickly takes a small knife from a small belt wrapped around his leg. The knife slams its way into the man's hand, effectively nailing the hand to the chair. The man's screams echo throughout the empty room as Hunt puts the gun down and reaches into his pocket. He takes out his roll of gray duct tape and rips off a piece. He slaps it across the man's mouth, muffling his screams. He retracts the knife quickly, and tapes the man's hand in a circle with the tape, blunting the flow of blood. He rips open the man's shirt, and walks to the wall where he has dropped his 'bag' in the corner. He pulls out a folded white, posterboard and a black marker. He writes two sentences on the white board, and then grabs a stapler from the bag.

"This is going to sting," he tells Jimmy as he staples the large posterboard to the man's chest, putting one, two, three staples in place. The man's whimpering can be heard as Hunt walks away, returning to his bag again. This time he retrieves a small needle and syringe. Walking back toward his guest, he quickly, efficiently inserts the needle into the man's wrist and plunges its contents into the injured man who barely hovers around consciousness.

"Good nite, Jimmy," he tells the man as he walks back – again – to his bag, this time retrieving it and bringing it back to Jimmy. He drops the bag on the floor, and retrieves his pistol, knife and assorted other items, dropping them into the bag. He walks over to the deceased form of Vinnie Taliferio and bends to pick up the long sword that lies on the ground.

"Can't leave you here, old friend," he tells the weapon as he wipes it across the dead mobster's pants. He places it – almost reverently – into the long case that is its home, and closes it shut and slings it across his shoulder. Now, his bag in one hand and the case slung across his back, he glances back at his handiwork. Jimmy Goodwin is now – gratefully – unconscious. He will sleep for a half hour or so. That's more than enough time for the authorities to find him.

Dialing 911 as he talks toward the door, Hunt hums a tune, waiting for an answer. Two rings later, he is greeted with a response.

"911, what is the nature of your call?"

"Two dead men, one still alive but very sleepy. Follow this call," he tells the operator and places the phone next to the door on the floor. Opening the door, he walks outside, whistling a tune again. He takes off the black gloves and shoves him into his pant pocket. Within half a minute, he is on the street, looking for all the world like a throwback musician, carrying his weapons of music.


	11. Chapter 11

**Monster: Chapter 11**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 10: Norfolk, Virginia, at 10:05 a.m.**_

"I appreciate you finding the time to meet with me, Mr. Marks."

Kate Beckett slides an envelope across the table to her companion, Peter Marks. A local boatman from the area, it was his craft that was hijacked in the Chesapeake Bay a month ago. After her briefing with Esposito and Ryan, and now that she has some time on her hands, thanks to a leave of absence, she has decided to travel back to the source.

Not the source of her fiancée's abduction, but to the spot where two lions went missing.

"_All this time," _she thinks to herself,_ "the biggest clue we could have hoped for was staring us smack in the face, front and center in both videos."_

The clue, of course, is the lions. The common thread between both videos were Richard Castle and two lions. Not a coincidence.

After her colleagues had left, Kate had packed a night bag, then unpacked it, and re-packed a few extra things in a larger carry-on suitcase. Then she made her way to LaGuardia for a trip down south. Her first stop – Norfolk, Virginia, where the man sitting across from her now lives. She had looked him up and found him easily enough.

In Kate's mind, this is the best place to start – if she is going to think like a detective. The videos raised questions – tough ones – but they also provided her with enough hypothetical answers to give her a starting point. The plane ride to Norfolk was easy, with her deep in thought about the possibilities and the probabilities.

Possibilities?

Richard Castle got cold feet, and ran off. Kyra was her first choice. She has ruled both the scenario and the woman out, after careful consideration. Someone sent the videos to the mayor. Not to her. But whoever sent the videos had to know they would get back to her. So if Castle had run off with a woman, and someone wanted Kate to know, well, then the woman would have been in the videos. Just the realization of this alone has caused her great relief. For the first few days, there was no doubt in her mind that he had been abducted. After a week, well, it's just human nature when other types of fears creep into one's mind.

So – having decided that he has been abducted, Kate's next hypothesis is that he is being kept somewhere remote, and the lions are keeping him captive. There was a fence – not the rod-iron kind, or the brick or marble walls one would associate with a resort. No, this fence was barbed wire. The kind to keep someone in, or keep someone out. Or both.

The disappearance of two lions – being hijacked at sea, no less – brought into focus this latest hypothesis. Castle is missing, taken ten days ago. Two lions are missing, taken a month ago. These are two scenarios which are long-shot occurrences – a writer being kidnapped and two lions being stolen. Yet there they are – on the same video – the missing writer and two lions. No coincidence.

Knowing that the lions were destined for Norfolk, and knowing that the boat owner of the missing watercraft is located in Norfolk – well, that seems the best place to start. With him.

Marks creates a slight crack in the envelope, enough to garner a peek inside. He cannot help the gasp that escapes from his mouth at the sight of five – he is counting them now – five one-thousand dollar bills. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money to push across the table to a stranger. Kate, of course, decided that Richard Castle wouldn't mind her spending some of his money to find him. He has told her, a number of times, that it is their money.

"Not until we're official," she had told him each time. Now, given the current circumstances, she knows he would not begrudge her a change in mind.

"There is more – so much more – where this came from," she tells the man. Then, to ensure he doesn't get any wild ideas, she opens her short jacket to reveal the NYPD-issued pistol in her coat, and puts her NYPD badge on the table. She also allows opens the other side of her jacket, revealing a knife, sheathed and attached to her pocket. It has the desired effect.

"I'm not here in any official capacity," she smiles affably, "but I am showing you what is in store for you if you screw with me. You can give me what I am looking for – and be well rewarded for it – or you can screw me over, and be well rewarded for that," she tells him, tapping her gun lightly.

"That's not a hard choice, miss," Marks tells her, picking up the envelope and stuffing it in his pants pocket.

"I hoped it wouldn't be," Kate smiles. "Now, all I want is some information – probably the same information you gave the local police here."

"They didn't seem too terribly interested, the bastards," he comments. "Chief Baker has always had a gnat up his ass with me, and has decided that there are no pirates on the bay and that I made the whole thing up trying to get a nice insurance payoff."

"So," Kate begins, still smiling but her smile is not a friendly one. "That's my first question – and Mr. Marks, please understand, I don't give a shit if you are trying to squeeze some money out of your insurance company. Remember, I'm not here in any official capacity. I am simply looking for someone, and the information you can give me might help. If it does, then I will make you a happy man. If not, then you will never see me again."

"Fair enough," Marks smiles. This is going to be a good day.

"Who are you looking for, if you don't mind me asking?" he asks her, now sitting back, relaxing in the booth where they are waiting for their order.

"His name is Richard Castle," she tells him. "He is my fiancée and he has gone missing."

The change in demeanor, the quick look of terror that paints Peter Marks' face is one that completely surprises Kate Beckett. For a moment, she considers the wild – the absolutely absurd possibility that she has stumbled across someone associated with Castle's kidnapping. Pressing the issue, she reaches across the table, and taps her forefinger on his hand. It's a disarming gesture, and it works.

"So tell me, first of all – is your story true?"

"Every word of it!" Marks states, a little louder than expected.

"So you were enroute here to Norfolk when you boat was hijacked."

"I swear," Marks responds quickly.

His fears are somewhat founded, as Peter Marks – along with half of the country – has seen the CNN breaking news segment earlier this morning, re-capping the horrific findings in New York City from the previous day. Someone has gone on the offensive, tearing through the city, leaving mutilated corpses in his or her wake, a rampage with a singular mission: finding Richard Castle.

Kate, of course, has seen the news spots as well, and it has occurred to her that she could take advantage of this new development. No one knows – including Kate – who the assailant is, although she has a good hunch of who it might be. Hell, scratch that, she knows exactly who it is, and honestly had wondered when he would show. But outside the family of Richard Castle, no one has a clue who could be doing this. So her being in Norfolk, a day after this news breaks, the grieving and pissed off, jilted lover – yeah, she can make this play for her. She knows she has provided Mr. Peter Marks with dual incentive to help her out.

First, he wants the money, no question about it.

Second, he wonders if he is now sitting across the table from the source of the CNN breaking news. She certainly would have the motive, no question about that either. And she has a gun and a knife. Police detective or not, she has his attention.

Anxious to drag information out of the frightened man while she can, Kate begins her questioning.

"So, you had a cargo of lions you were transporting?"

"Yes, two of them – they were on the manifest, everything on the up and up."

"Why would someone want to steal two lions?"

"Hell, lady, I don't know if it was the lions they wanted, or just my boat," he tells her. "I mean, if you want to steal a lion, there's an easier way to do it."

"Perhaps," Kate gives him, nodding her head. "But I'm asking the questions, remember? I'm the one paying for answers."

"Right, right," Marks answers her and shudders as she touches his hand again, this time a little harder.

"So again, why would someone want to steal two lions?" she asks.

"I honestly don't know, God's honest truth," he tells her, and takes a deep breath, relieved when he sees her nod her head.

"I believe you, Mr. Marks," she tells him, and she passes another thousand dollar bill across the table – this time open for anyone looking to see. This is just in case she doesn't get what she needs from the boatman, then perhaps someone else will see her flashing money around and offer up information.

"So, tell me, where were you when you were attacked, when they took your boat?" she asks.

"We were just east of Gwynn Island, which is about seventy miles or so north of here, straight up the bay," he replies. "We were cruising close to the shoreline – about a couple of miles off land – because we . . . well we were getting spooked with those two beasts making all that noise."

"Quick entry to the shore in case something went wrong?" she asks.

"Yeah, and I gotta tell you, we were this close to turning for land, all right, "he tells her, holding his fingers less than an inch apart. "But then this other smaller boat came up out of nowhere. It was my fault, like I told the cops, because I was more focused on the shoreline and those crazy animals. And my crew was just as spooked."

Kate nods, considering the story. It does have a ring of truth to it, a ring of validity.

"So what happened then?" she asks, slowly reaching into her purse. Another thousand dollar bill finds its way into her hand.

"They had machine guns, and the craft looked kind of military and all, so we weren't sure what was going on. But they boarded quickly, and told us 'no hard feelings' and tossed us overboard. Threw the life raft in first, thankfully. We swam to the raft, hopped in, and paddled our asses off until we got to shore."

"Did they say anything that you can remember, other than 'no hard feelings'," Kate asks, this time taking the bill and tapping her finger on the man's hand simultaneously. "This is very important, Mr. Marks, so take your time."

"I already told the cops and the insurance guys – we heard one guy say 'three hours to Tangier', or something like that as they took off," Marks tells her. "Another guy said 'yeah, we gotta hurry'. But I already told the cops this, and they went to Tangier and searched high and low – but no boat. No one claims to have seen my boat. But I know what I heard and –"

"You are certain they said Tangier?"

"Yeah, short for the Tangier Islands up north – a little over a hundred miles north of us, and a little east. They are a series of islands – not well populated. Some tourists hang out there, and there is a cool little culture there that is dying off. But they have some remote little islands there also."

"But you said they didn't find the lions or your boat," Kate asks, wanting a clarification.

"Hell, lady, I don't know about the damn lions, and don't care," Marks replies, finding a bit of courage. "I just wanted my boat back. I didn't ask them to look for any lions. How do you think that is gonna work? They're just going to walk into a little tourist shop there and ask people if they've seen a couple of missing lions?"

Despite herself, Kate has to chuckle at the man and his renewed courage. She reaches into her purse and grabs a few more thousand dollar bills and pushes them across the table.

"Mr. Marks, I'm not going to share our conversation with anyone – I promise you. I simply ask the same courtesy from you. I wasn't here, you have never met me. But if what you have told me is true, well, I think I will be able to help your insurance company see the light. Agreed?"

"Lady, get me my boat back and you can –"

"Are we in agreement, Mr. Mark?" she says more forcefully, now applying pressure to the man's hand, causing a yelp to escape from his lips.

"Yes! Yes!" he almost screams.

"Thank you, Mr. Marks – I will do what I can. I appreciate the information."

With that, Kate stands up and begins to walk out of the small café when the waitress stops her.

"Your pie, miss?" the waitress says, holding the apple pie that she had ordered.

"It's for the gentleman in the booth," Kate smiles, pointing back at Peter Marks as she walks through the glass doors. It's a great morning. She finally has a spot to investigate – and she recognizes the name as one of the islands they found during their computer search two days ago. She hops in the rental car and puts the car in motion, heading for the airport. She glances down at her purse, smiling as she knows she has more than enough cash in there to prompt someone to fly her up the bay to the Tangier Islands.

_**Day 10: At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City, at 11:45 a.m.**_

Martha Rodgers walks slowly to the door, the doorbell having already rung twice. She idly wonders who would be calling on them. Alexis is in the den, conducting computer searches for Kate, who has just called less than half an hour ago.

She glances through the peephole and sighs. Opening the door, she puts her standard Martha Rodgers happy face on for Captain Victoria Gates.

"Hello Captain Gates," she says cheerily, "what can I do for you?"

All business, as usual, the Captain gets right to the point.

"Is Detective Beckett here, Ms. Rodgers?" the Captain asks.

"No she is not," Martha replies, just as Alexis walks out of the den. Hearing and recognizing the Captain's voice, Alexis is wondering if there is any news.

"Do you know where she is?" Captain Gates asks, and something in her voice, something in her tone puts both redheads on guard.

"No," Alexis answers quickly. "She said she was headed out of town. Wanted to check on something related to my dad."

"When will she be returning?" Gates asks, glancing from woman to woman.

"She didn't say," Martha replies affably. "It's been ten days and we are no closer to finding Richard now than we were ten days ago. Kate is taking things into her own hands, now."

"That's what I am afraid of," Gates tells her, her tone clearly giving them a warning. "That's what a number of people are afraid of."

"What are you talking about?" Alexis asks, her hands on her hips in defiance.

"I'm talking about the mass mutilations, the murders that are all over the news – murders I know both of you have to have heard about," Gates says, now all pretense of civility gone from her voice.

"You think _Kate_ did this?" Martha asks incredulously.

"Geez, _no wonder_ you haven't found my father!" Alexis notes, her voice rising now. "My dad goes missing and –"

"Alexis," Gates interrupts, "You have to understand how _it looks_, and right now, looks are everything. Detective Beckett goes on a leave of absence – which I encouraged. A day later, bodies start piling up, mass killings start. And Kate is nowhere to be found? Out of town?"

"Captain Gates, I will thank you to leave our home this very instant," an indignant Martha Rodgers replies, hostility clearing showing.

Knowing she will get nowhere with the older woman, the Captain walks toward the door, but with parting words for Alexis.

"Alexis – I know you and Kate are close. All I need to know is where she is, where she was yesterday – and I can clear this whole mess up."

"I don't know where she is," Alexis lies, offering the Captain a friendly smile as she walks her to the door. "But when I hear from her, I will give her your message."

With that, the younger woman shuts the door in the face of the NYPD 12th Precinct Captain, whose mouth is left agape.

"Well that could have gone better," the police captain mutters to herself as she walks toward the elevator.

_**Day 10: The New York Federal Penitentiary, at 3:05 p.m.**_

Senator William Bracken sits at the table, two armed guards behind him. The bright orange prison suit fits large on him, as he has found prison food . . . distasteful during his incarceration as he awaits trial. His preliminary hearing is in five days. They have – to his mind – come up with a credible defense. If, that is, everything is working.

Elizabeth Bracken walks into the visiting room and sits across from her husband. An additional guard is now in the room with the couple.

"How are you, Will?" she asks him, taking in his somewhat haggard appearance. She has never seen him look like this, and her heart goes out to the man she has called husband for as long as she can remember adult life.

"Can't take it much longer in here, Liz," he tells her honestly.

"I know," she replies softly.

"They, for the most part, keep me in solitary confinement away from everyone," he tells her. "Evidently, for my own protection, they say. Seems being a U.S. Senator still counts for something here. I get some time in the yard, but these guys . . . these guys are animals, Liz. They carry -"

"You have only five days left here, my love," she tells him with a smile, interrupting his rant.

"What, are you busting me out?" he half laughs, spitting the words out with more venom than he intends.

"I'm sorry Liz, I didn't mean that. It's just –"

"I know what it is, Will," she interrupts, her eyes telling him he has nothing to worry about. "And no, I am not busting you out. Trust me, in five days, you will walk out the front door a free man, my love."

"How?" he asks, with exasperation. He wants out of here. He needs to see the sky, fresh air, a clean suit, a good meal, a night of sweet sex. Simple pleasures in life he had grown to take for granted.

"You leave that to me," she replies softly. "You did marry me for more than just my good looks, you know."

"I miss those looks right now," he whispers to her, and she simply smiles.

"Five days, my love," and she rises to leave, but takes her fingers to her lips and places a kiss on them for her husband.

"Five days, and you will see us no more," she tells the guards with a smile that – now with her back turned to her husband – has turned decidedly sinister.

Through the doors and out into the fresh air, she walks toward her car, smiling. She bends to get into the front seat, and closes the door. Starting the engine, she smiles broadly, talking out loud.

"Kate misses those looks also, now my love. And Mr. Castle is confined in solitary, just like you. He is behind bars, just like you. He is eating horrific food, just like you. He is caged with beasts, just like you, my love. He is watching beasts kill and feast in the yard, just like you."

She pulls into traffic, with a glance in her rear-view mirror.

"And he will stay there until you are free," she says with a smile. "Five more days, my love," she whispers, then hits the accelerator as she speaks a voice command into the car's Bluetooth system.

"Call Rodney Simmons."


	12. Chapter 12

**Monster: Chapter 12**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 11: On Tangier Island near the Airport, 9:07 a.m.**_

"I appreciate you meeting with me, Sheriff Tate," she tells him, sipping on some of the worst coffee she has tasted since . . . well, since before Richard Castle had graced the 12th Precinct with a new industrial coffeemaker all of those years ago.

"No problem, Detective," the sheriff replies affably. For him, the coffee is wonderful, one of the better brews he has made. "I apologize that I haven't heard about your boyfriend. I know some of the folks here have read his books and all, but we don't sample much from the mainland in terms of current events. We have a nice easy pace here."

"I understand, Sheriff," she responds quickly.

From her research, she has learned that Tangier Island is exactly that – a simple place. With a population less than seven hundred and fifty, the island is a throwback to a simpler time, with a language and dialect spoken by the people that harkens back to a different culture. Sadly, it is a culture that is disappearing with each generation.

Her research also provided her with a bit of valuable information.

There are a whopping two – count them – two official government personnel on the island – which is actually a small chain of islands. There is a finance officer and a police officer. Sheriff Tate is the lone police resource. The fire force is made up of volunteers from the community, not unlike other small towns. Yeah, there are literally only hundreds of civilians living on the island who are not tourists. It doesn't sound like much. But there are many little islands and inlets here. Plenty of space, protected by marsh and natural water obstacles. Plenty of space to hide a captive from a single, solitary police officer – the lone police presence here. If you're going to kidnap someone and pick a remote place to take them – well, this fits that bill. Last night, she went to sleep confident that he is here. Somewhere in this small isolated chain of islands called Tangier – he is here.

And now, so is she.

"So, what can I do for you, Detective?" Tate asks her.

"As I said, I'm looking for Mr. Castle," she tells him, trying to keep this as official as possible. She doesn't want to come across as this out-of-control, at-the-end-of-her rope fiancée on this wild crusade – which is exactly what she is. She knows that the more in control and professional she keeps this, the better her chances of working with the man across from her. He doesn't have time for nonsense – not being the only authority figure here.

"I know this is going to sound crazy, so I will just show you," she says, taking a DVD from her purse. She had made a copy of the two videos sent to the mayor, and she is going to show the sheriff what she knows – it's one of those 'a picture is worth a thousand words' kind of thing. She inserts the disc into the sheriff's computer, and within seconds, he is watching the first video sent to the mayor. He doesn't say a word as the video ends and Beckett immediately ejects the disc, and places the second disc in place. Closing the DVD door, she waits as the video auto-plays. The video plays and ends, with no comment from the sheriff for a few seconds, before he speaks.

"Hit PLAY again. I want to watch this again," he tells her.

A minute later, both videos now played and viewed by the sheriff, she ejects the second disc, replacing both DVDs into her purse.

"Well, now that _is_ interesting," the small town/island sheriff reflects, rubbing his chin.

"First thoughts?" Kate asks, hopeful that he doesn't see this as a runaway groom frolicking in the safari. He doesn't disappoint.

"Honesty, first glance, my first thought was that there is no crime here," he begins with a snort. "But then I saw the second video."

"What did you see there?" she asks, anxious to hear his report.

"Well, his hair is longer, his beard is growing, and he hasn't changed clothes. Not the kind of vacation I'd think some upscale writer was looking for. It looks like someone wants it to appear like he is there voluntarily. Those little items suggest otherwise."

Kate smiles, having seen exactly the same thing.

"But the bigger issue is the cats," he muses, as he sticks his hand out to her. "Let me see that second disk again."

She gives him the disc a second time, and he whistles softly as he places the disc in the tray, closing the tray door.

"Watch this," he says, as he forwards a few seconds to the spot he wants.

"Look at the larger lion," he tells her. "The male. What do you see?"

Kate looks, then slides the viewing bar slightly backwards, and views again. She's missed it, whatever he has seen. She slides the bar back a third time when he speaks, pointing her in the right direction.

"The male – around his neck hairs. You see it?"

Now she does. How did they miss that?

"Blood," she notes, her mind now racing. Why would there be blood?

"Yep," he smiles, as he sits back in his chair. "Dried blood. Those guys have just been fed, I'd say within a day or two. Blood is barely there, wearing off. But it's there. Which explains the fence. Because whatever those two cats ate, I'd take a gander it was alive when they went at it. You don't get all that blood residue if you're feeding an animal red meat."

Kate nods appreciatively. Yeah, she had missed that.

"But doesn't explain why your man is just sitting there with them," Tate continues. "No one in their right mind is going to sit that close to those killing machines – unless there are some very extenuating circumstances."

Kate reflects that she has likely underestimated the small-town sheriff – a mistake she won't repeat. It's actually good news, too, as he may prove to be far more helpful than she initially thought.

"Two lions were . . . believe this or not, hijacked," she tells him. "Seajacked actually, over a month ago just south of you here in the Chesapeake Bay. Based upon the information I collected from the captain whose boat was commandeered, along with the lions, I believe they were brought here."

"What makes you think that?"

"The captain told me that he heard his perpetrators refer to Tangier Island, and needing to get here quickly. That's enough of a smoking gun for me."

"Me, too," the sheriff agrees, nodding his head. "But now the bad news. Let's assume your little kitty cats are here, and that your fiancée is being held here as well. I know we are a small set of islands – but that's just it. We are a _set of islands_, heavy marsh, and tough to get around. Most of the islands are connected by bridges, but it's going to take us a few days to do a thorough search. Between these islands and Goose Island . . . well, the possibilities aren't endless, but there are more than a few."

"I noticed you said 'we', Sheriff," she smiles, genuinely grateful. "But I'd rather you not be a part of this. I don't know what I am going to find – and plus, you're a one man show here. You have to stay available for your normal wear and tear that I know happens here on your islands. I just need a chopper, or a plane, and a pilot."

"Well, that might not be the least expensive –"

"Money is no object, Sheriff, believe me," she interrupts. "I just need a pilot, and probably a rifle."

"I assume with tranquilizers . . . those are endangered species you're talking about hunting," he tells her.

"What I am after walks on two legs," she smiles. He shudders at the lack of emotion she shows as she starts gathering her thoughts for her next steps. "Now, who's the best pilot out here?"

"That would be Hopkins," he replies, "but he's gone to the mainland until tomorrow. He's not only the best pilot, but he knows this area as well as I do. You'll need him – and he's worth the wait."

She frowns, not wanting to waste another day in her search, but his logic is unassailable. Sensing her conflict, Tate adds his final thoughts, which sway her to his line of thinking.

"Look, Detective," he begins. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but you say that your fiancée has been gone for ten days. If that's true well, he's either dead or he's alive. From what you told me, and what I can see, whoever has him is keeping him alive. All to say, one day isn't going to kill him. Bad choice of words, I know, but I think you can see my point."

Nodding her head, she reluctantly has to agree with the man. But sitting here, twiddling her thumbs isn't an option either.

"Do you have any good maps of the area that I can start studying?" she asks.

"Yeah, I do," he replies, and I can get them to you in a jiffy. But another thing you might consider is Barry Gimble down at the docks. He's normally down there, having a drink, but he would have noticed any strange boats docking, and any stranger cargo unloading. We're a small town," he smiles. "We tend to notice that type of thing."

"I'm sure you do," Kate returns the smile. 'Gimble, you say?"

"Yep, just head down to the docks. You'll find him easy enough," Tate tells her as he hands her a stack of maps of the islands in the region. "These will help. I trust this isn't the last time I will see these maps."

"I'll take good care of them, Sheriff," she agrees. "I appreciate your help, I really do. Oh, and Sheriff Tate," she adds, "I don't know who I can trust here, so I'd –"

"No worries," he tells her. "Mums the word. I know pretty much everyone here, but there are tourists. The one thing I will do is discreetly check the hotels to see if there is anyone who is here for an extended stay."

"Good idea," she agrees. It's a good first step. Anyone who is here watching Castle will either be right there with him, or close by in one of the hotels. She stands, smiling, and takes her leave, stepping out into the bright sunlight. Her smile leaves, as she feels the morning sun beating down on the back of her neck. It's going to be a hot day already, and she idly wonders just what type of conditions he must be stuck in.

If he's here.

_**Day 11: New York City, at 11:22 a.m.**_

Martha Rodgers and her granddaughter, Alexis, are on the elevator, their grocery cart alongside them. They've spent the last hour of the morning down the street at the local grocery store, buying food and just getting fresh air. The aura in the loft – according to the matriarch – was getting far too negative. They each stand, holding hands, but quiet – each lost in their own thoughts when the elevator door opens. They walk the final few steps to the front door, Alexis pushing the makeshift cart. Seconds later, the door swings open and Martha finds her voice again.

"Home at last," she mutters. It's not much of a home right now – not without the owner gone. Immediately, however, she senses they are not alone, and glances toward the kitchen area. On a barstool sits Jackson Hunt.

She struggles to find her breath, her words, when Alexis runs to the older man. Her father's disappearance has brought her own ordeal from a year ago back into sharp focus, front and center on her mind. Seeing the man who – behind the scenes – was responsible for her release is too much. Within seconds, her face is buried in his chest – a family scene he is not familiar – or comfortable = with.

"Grandpa," she says softly, not entirely comfortable with calling him this, but not comfortable with calling him anything else either. Martha hesitates until the silver-haired man from her past extends a hand toward her. The pain she sees in his eyes makes her decision for her, and she slowly walks into his embrace with her their granddaughter.

For a few seconds none of them say a word, allowing their breathing and the simplicity of the tears that stain all three faces communicate for them. Hunt holds tightly onto the two women who he had long ago given up on holding in such a way. Of course, the circumstance that has instigated this family reunion is anything but joyous. Finally, Martha breaks the silence as only she can.

"I never thought I would say these words, but I am so happy to see you," she tells him wistfully, earning a tightening of the embrace from both Hunt and Alexis. Both recognize how difficult this is for the family matriarch.

"I know that I owe you – both of you – the apology of all apologies, but for the sake of time, let's delay that for another day, which I promise you both, is coming," he begins, still holding tightly to the two women.

"I assume that the carnage we are hearing about on television can be placed at your feet," Martha muses aloud. She says this with no malice or ill intent, and notes with satisfaction that he takes in in the spirit it is given.

"Guilty as charged," he tells her with a chuckle that resembles ice cubes crinkling in a small glass. For Alexis, it is a bit disarming. For her grandmother, it is precisely within character as she has imagined the man who helped bring their son into the world. The clear menace in which he carries himself is a thing to behold, indeed.

"Grandpa," Alexis begins, searching for the right words. He stops her, thankfully, before she can botch this up.

"Alexis, yes, I've done some horrible things to some horrible people. Trust me when I say that what I gave to them is a fraction of what they have dallied out to others during their all-too-long existence on earth."

His words, how he chooses them, the way he thinks – it is a throwback to another time, Alexis thinks. A time that she can only read about in books – a time that no longer exists.

"Were any of them associated with Richard's disappearance?" Martha asks.

"No," he replies without emotion. "I had no idea where to start, no intel to go on" he admits, "so I started to rattle a few cages."

"Rattle a few cages?" Martha exclaims, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. Alexis, however, has a much calmer reaction. She has seen, first-hand, the handiwork of her grandfather. The mention of the word cages takes her back to Paris. She's in a cage, all right, with strange men speaking a strange language all around her. Suddenly, her father appears – captured by her captors as well. And before she can get her head around that development, her father utters those words that still echo in her mind to this day.

"_Get down,"_ he had said without warning, and all hell broke loose around them. An explosion, then another, and another, with human beings losing their heads, their faces, their arms. Seconds later, she is running through the carnage, dragged by her father, unable to take her eyes away from the human horrors laying on the floor around them.

Yes, Alexis knows what her grandfather is capable of when his family is attacked. Hearing the newscasters lambast the violence does nothing to change her opinion of the man holding her now. She vaguely hears his conversation with her grandmother.

". . . don't care what it takes, Martha, or who I have to hurt. I'm going to find him. Someone knows where he is. I'm just letting them know that the cost of their silence will be staggering. Eventually I will hit close enough to home."

"But . . . but you aren't like this. I know this is our son, but the man I knew –"

"The man you knew is not here right now, Martha," he interrupts. "In this life, there are moments that make monsters of us. Don't be deceived – we are facing a monster. So for now, I, too am a monster. I am who I need to be, until I know longer need to be."

Martha Rodgers struggles with his simple explanation. Alexis Castle does not, as she tightens her grip on the man, earning a raised eyebrow from the older woman.

"I understand," the young redhead tells him softly, and he knows that she understands. All too well, she understands.

_**Day 11: That evening, on an island in the Tangier Islands at the Compound, at 7:23 p.m.**_

Richard Castle falls to the ground, raising his hands defiantly to the skies in victory. He tries to hold his exultant whoop inside, but is unsuccessful. Who can blame him? After two days of searching, he has found the video camera.

It is by pure luck that he has found it. He's been searching for the past hour as the sun began to set, and just a few minutes ago – by sheer providence – he was staring absently with frustration at the tree trunk of the lone tree inside the compound, desperately trying to resist the urge to punch the trunk – and break a few bones in his hand in the process.

As he glanced away, he saw it. Just for an instant, and his mind flew back decades in time to a Sesame Street routine he loved as a little boy.

"One of these things is not like the others," played in his mind as he caught the sunlight reflecting off a piece of the tree trunk. Yeah, something doesn't belong here. Tree trunks are magnificent things. They are massive, they are hard, they are edgy, they are many things.

But they don't reflect light.

That is, they aren't supposed to reflect light. But this small vertical piece of the trunk did just that. It reflected sunlight. That – in nature, of course – is a physical impossibility. He retraced this steps with his eyes, and sure enough, there it was again. A small glint.

He had touched the offending piece of trunk, and yeah, it feels different. It feels kind of plastic, almost metallic. He followed the smoothness upward, through the myriad of branches. It had been – well, let's just say it's been awhile since he has climbed a tree, yet climb it he does, careful to keep his balance as he goes up, climbing higher. As he climbs, he keeps one hand coming back to the smooth piece of trunk, no more than an inch across, moving upward until suddenly the texture on his fingers changes, roughening and becoming more tree-like.

"_There we go,"_ he had thought to himself, smiling. The lining stops here, at this level. He follows the branches individually as they branch outward until he finds one with the same smooth texture. Smiling, he follows it toward the edge of the branch, noticing that it is facing the open area where he typically is seated.

"Yeah, this makes sense," he thought again to himself, now paying particular attention to the leaves and branch structure, before he saw it. No bigger than a small bottle of prescription pills, and easily hidden in camouflage within the branch and leaves, with a brown wire sticking out.

"_Power,"_ he thinks to himself. "Gotcha," he smiles, hastily backpedalling down the tree, and falling to his knees in exuberance. Standing back up, he does a little happy dance, turning in two complete circles of joy before looking upward yet again.

"Thank you," he says aloud, a bright smile on his face. Now he has to think this through. He can't be hasty, he can't screw this up. Whatever plan he comes up with, he knows he is likely to only get one shot at this. Being careful, and considering that they may be trying to watch him now, he slowly moves back in front of the camera, and sits in his normal spot, glancing at his friends. They seem to be a bit agitated, no doubt confused by the little joyful jig he had performed minutes ago.

"Act normal," he tells himself, muttering under his breath, "and for God's sake, don't look back at the camera." Such a simple task proves harder than it sounds, now that he knows where it is. He closes his eyes, trying to clear his head. A good plan, that's what he needs. And he is in no hurry. He doesn't have to come up with it tonight – but he sure as heck is starting to walk down that road. There is power running from the camera, down the tree trunk, to the ground. Tomorrow, he will start digging at the base of the tree, following the wire to the source of the power. Then he will figure out what to do next.

"Soon," he tells himself, as he closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall asleep sitting just feet from the hungry beasts.


	13. Chapter 13

Monster: Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 12: Goose Island, just south of the Main Tangier Island, 1:42 p.m.**_

The small Cessna 172 Skyhawk dips gently, banking to the right yet again over the northwestern tip of Goose Island. Flying roughly one hundred feet above the ground, the single engine plane gives Kate Beckett and pilot Keith Hopkins a perfect view of the lush grounds below. This is the first island they have chosen to search in the chain of islands here in the Chesapeake Bay. So far, it has been a discouraging escapade, as the early exuberance of flying through the morning skies have darkened, replaced by frustration and a growing sense of dread.

"Keep your spirits up," Hopkins yells loudly as he gives her a quick glance. The bubbly personality he saw when they first took off is long gone. In its place is a woman who is letting the worst thoughts possible cram their way into her mind.

"Contrary to what you see in Hollywood, this actually takes a while," he reminds her, as he initially told her this morning. "People get found in a few minutes in the movies," he continues, now staring out his window as well. "In real life, it just doesn't work that way."

She nods in reluctant understanding, knowing exactly what he means. Often have she and the boys laughed at movies where they accomplish in sixty minutes what each of them knows takes weeks in a real life precinct.

So far this morning, she has seen birds. A lot of birds. And that's basically it. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that screams for a second look. Nothing resembling the video, with the fenced-in area and a single building on the interior.

She refocuses her eyes, now growing tired from the exertion of just a few hours. The sun is well hidden behind the clouds. Ahead of them, they can see the storm clouds coming. A tropical storm hit landfall to the west of them on the other side of the peninsula earlier in the wee hours of the morning off the Atlantic. The winds have died down considerably before landing, but the storm – which now approaches from the west – will still force this tiny plane back to the ground. They have less than a couple more hours before she knows Hopkins will call it a day. She bites her lower lip, and blinks quickly, not wanting to miss anything. Just searching . . . searching.

_**Day 12: The compound on one of the Tangier Islands, 5:11 p.m.**_

The rain is falling at a constant rate now, and the winds have picked up considerably. Without the Weather Channel or the local forecast, Richard Castle has been completely taken by surprise by the remnants of the tropical storm that now pound the little island – and his compound. At first he relished the cold front, the smell of the coming rain. The first few drops were heaven. Now, this downpour has gotten ridiculous. But it's the winds he worries about the most.

That fence outside _looks_ sturdy enough, it _looks_ like it can handle a little wind. But twelve days into captivity will do something to one's normally optimistic view of the world. The lightning isn't helping either. He almost thanks the heavens for no hail, but stops himself, not willing to issue that challenge.

Then it hits him, and Richard Castle laughs out loud, pumping his fist excitedly. The lightning!

A lightning strike is rare. A lightning strike would have to be precise. But whoever is watching him can see the change in weather, and can see the lightning and high winds. They know the danger that is approaching – if they are watching him, or even watching their television. If something just happened to occur that would damage or take out their video camera in the trees . . . well, it's a plausible possibility. One that he now realizes he can take advantage of.

"_If something were to happen to the camera, if I disable it, they will have to come out here,"_ he thinks to himself. "_They would need to check on it, because they want to keep an eye on me_." And the lightning will give him the cover, the plausible explanation for why the camera is no longer working.

The good thing is that although the protective darkness is still a couple of hours away, the coming night is not needed. The storm and heavy cloud cover has taken care of that, giving his little home-away-from-home a dark complexion. It could easily pass for well after sundown now, and the rain can give him cover.

He walks over to the box of food in the corner, and retrieves one of the sharpened can tops that he has kept. He has found a use for them now, and as he retrieves the can top, he muses on the role these sharp babies will play tomorrow – or the next day. Whenever they come for him. Whenever they come to fix their camera.

He walks out of the cabin, into the downpour, rejuvenated by the plan that is currently forming inside his head. A few more steps and he is drenched, but he is at the tree now. He approaches from behind the camera view, glancing upward at the branches above him. Taking a breath, and falling back on his childhood training for a second time in the past three days, he begins climbing. Limb by limb, he makes his way upward, slipping occasionally on the wet branch trunks.

Finally, he reaches the video camera, and sees the camouflaged power cord connected to it. Taking his can top, he saws against the power cord before catching himself.

"What happens if this guy gets wet," he wonders aloud, staring at the wire. Unsatisfied with the possibilities, he crawls back down the trunk of the tree, and returns to the cabin, content to let the downpour pass over his little home before taking their vision away from them. Undeterred by the slight setback - knowing it is just a delay, only a postponement, not a cancellation – he puts his plan in motion in his mind.

He believes that they are under instructions to keep him alive. In fact, he is counting on this probability.

"_I was getting sick – they saw that and dropped me antibiotics and medicines and vitamins,"_ he thinks to himself yet again. _"That's not something you do when you are trying to kill someone. That's what you do when you want to keep someone alive. Well and alive."_

Yeah, they could have let him grow sick and die. They could have left him to the elements, allowed nature to decide his fate. But they had intervened, flying out here and dropping medicine for him. They want him alive and doing well. So when they come tomorrow – or whenever – to check on the camera, he is counting on their normal aggression being dialed back a bit. Once he makes his move, once he attacks, they won't be in kill mode. They will be trying to _protect_ their cargo, not _kill_ it. He can use their hesitancy to his advantage. When he makes his move, he is counting on having two things to that advantage: the element of surprise, and their likely tendency to hold back.

He doesn't realize how accurate his thoughts are. After all, Elizabeth Bracken has given everyone clear instructions – he is to be kept alive and unharmed. One of her pilots allowed his anger to get the better of him regarding Castle. He received a trip to the lion's den for his efforts. What could have easily turned out badly for the writer had proven deadly for the pilot.

And Elizabeth Bracken did not hesitate to turn this into a lesson for those working for her. A man defied her will, and paid the price. All of her men know this. So yes, if they come here to this island for the writer, they definitely will be – as he called it – dialed back.

He thinks of escaping. There will be options available to him, but the one thing he has decided is that he will have to go west. From what he remembers of the Tangiers Islands, and the scribblings in the dirt he has used to remind himself of their location – going west will take him to the mainland. Going east will take him to a peninsula which leads to the Atlantic Ocean. Going north takes him toward the mainland – but it is a longer route. Too far south, and he is in the open ocean.

No, west it has to be. It is the shortest route to safety – true safety – and civilization that he can trust. Whether by the chopper he hopes to entice here, or simply by foot – past the beasts – and borrowing a boat, he needs to go west.

_**Day 12: New York City, 7:52 p.m.**_

Jackson Hunt remains on the rampage through the city's underworld. He knows that Kate Beckett is in the Tangier Islands. She has called Martha earlier today to update her. He knows that her search today has not yielded fruit, cut short due to bad weather. He also knows that she will continue her search tomorrow when the weather clears.

"Good girl," he thinks to himself, pleased to see that the detective hasn't just burrowed into the ground that is their loft, simply waiting for good news.

More – Martha has told Kate about Jackson and his . . . unique methods of soliciting information. According to Martha, Kate's feelings on Hunt are decidedly mixed. However, she does have to admit right now that she is glad that the man is here – and on their side.

During their call, Martha has also told Kate about her visit from Captain Victoria Gates. She tells her that Gates didn't exactly accuse Kate of being a suspect in the recent barrage of killings in the search for Castle – but she clearly let it be known that others consider Kate in that regard. Kate, however, seemed nonplussed on the matter. She knows she isn't the one doing the killing, and she has decided that she can't spend a single minute worrying about that right now.

The good news, however, is that the NYPD has finally gotten serious about finding Richard Castle, and about finding anyone who has any information on his disappearance. Before Jackson Hunt showed up, Richard Castle's disappearance was a media story, with a few NYPD detectives assigned – part time at that – to finding the missing writer. After all, they have real crimes to solve, and the majority is still out on whether or not Castle has been kidnapped or simply gone off on an ill-timed boondoggle. No ransom note, no request for money, no demands. No – the jury is out in the court of public opinion, as Kate has received both massive support and equally increasing scorn and ridicule in the social media fronts.

Jackson Hunt's methodology for finding answers, however, has changed all of that. The NYPD now considers finding Richard Castle to be a top priority. The emotional and illogical side of Kate's brain curses her captain and the NYPD in general. Yeah, _now_ they are interested in finding Castle, now that bodies are piling up. It dawned on her during her phone call with Martha that this might have been Hunt's plan all along. If the NYPD wasn't going to make Castle's disappearance a priority, then, by God, he would make it a priority for them.

Hunt puts these thoughts out of his mind, as he looks down at the half-conscious, frightened man that lies on the floor, his hands bound by handcuffs. Danny Moreno offers fleeting glances at the three other men in the room who have clearly left this world in a most inglorious fashion. The young Puerto Rican was – until today – a rising star in the established drug gang, but he has never used physical discussions as a means to an end. Tonight, he finds himself on the wrong end of such a discussion, and is completely unprepared for the violent assault on his senses.

"Now, Danny," Hunt begins as the young man stirs completely awake, his senses now on overload from the carnage of death around him.

"Danny, focus on my voice, Danny," Hunt tells him. "I want you to know that I am actually considering allowing you to live through this little talk," he continues, "if you give me something useful."

Danny opens his mouth to begin speaking, but Hunt quickly places a finger over the man's lips, with a stern warning.

"Now wait, Danny. Before you say a single word, let me instruct you, let me warn you – I have had a long day, and I have killed over a dozen men and women today. One more really doesn't matter to me. Do you understand what I am saying, Danny?"

The frightened man nods his head quickly up and down, trying desperately to calm himself. If this guy is telling the truth, then he may get out of here alive. If not, well there is nothing he can do about it. He chooses door number one. This man has been the topic of many a discussion in his neighborhood circles for the past day. Danny figured that just purely by statistical odds he wouldn't run into this guy. He figured wrong, of course, and now his life is literally hanging on his next words.

"Are you ready, Danny?" Hunt asks him. "And when I say ready, I mean ready to have a forthcoming conversation."

Danny nods his head again, careful not to say anything – not even a single word – that isn't an answer to his captor's questioning.

"Someone knows something, Danny," Hunt begins calmly, sitting on a chair in front of the Latino. "This is a big city. People disappear all the time, I get that. But _someone_ always knows. Someone _always_ has eyes and ears. Now Danny, I completely accept that you don't know anything about my son's disappearance."

Hunt can see Danny Moreno visibly relax, and he smirks to himself.

"_Oh no, Danny boy, you are not getting off this easily,"_ the CIA agent muses to himself.

"What I _don't_ accept, Danny, is that you have no ideas, no ideas at all, of who _might_ know something. What I _don't_ accept, Danny, is that something like this occurred with no one in this city the wiser. What I _don't_ accept, Danny, is that – with your life hanging in the balance – there isn't even one name, one bonafide name that you can give me. Someone who I can go and question."

The fear and _hesitation_ in Danny's eyes is clear, and Jackson Hunt actually finds himself admiring the man somewhat. He knows that the man could easily give up a few names to save his own ass, knowing full well that he would be turning this ruthless killer loose on whoever he gives up. That he still says nothing is duly noted by his captor.

"I know it is a tough thing, Danny," Hunt continues with a genuine smile that does nothing to calm Danny's fears. "But please understand, I _am _going to kill you if you don't give me something useful."

"May I speak, sir?" the young man finally gets out, his mouth finally outweighing his fears. Hunt finds himself – again – admiring this one.

"Yes – I am hoping you will," Hunt replies.

"I – don't – know – anyone," Danny says, emphasizing every word. "Trust me, I know what is at stake. But I can't just sign someone over to you to save my own skin, knowing that they probably are just like me – completely in the dark. I just _can't_, man!"

Hunt nods, smiling at the man's courage and convictions. Interesting to find them in such a place.

"So you are in the dark, Danny?"

"I am shit under the mushroom dark, man! I'm telling you the truth," Danny offers quickly.

Hunt stands, causing young Moreno to flinch back in terror. He ignores the cowering man, and walks toward the door, considering his words. Suddenly, a thought appears to Danny Moreno – a thought that saves – and changes – the young man's life.

"There _is_ one thing," Moreno considers quickly. Hunt turns to face him, still standing a good fifteen feet away from him.

"There _was _a guy who had a bit of a hard-on for your son," he tells him. "For you son and his detective friend."

"Fiancée," Hunt corrects.

"Yeah, her," Moreno quickly agrees. "Guy's name was Simmons. Vulcan Simmons. Ran the drug trade for years."

"You refer to him in the past tense," Hunt notes with curiosity.

"Yeah, he died," Moreno tells him. "Not too long ago. But he has a son – Rodney. And you know what they say – blood is thicker and all that. Rodney might know something."

"You do realize that I plan on having a discussion with Rodney," Hunt tells him. "A discussion that might not end well."

"I'm not asking you to _kill _the guy, mister," Moreno replies quickly. "I'm just telling you, if you want more information on your son, I gotta think Rodney might know something. I'm not saying that he's behind it all or anything, or even involved. But he might know something."

Hunt doesn't say anything, but stands motionless, staring at the man across the room from him. Making up his mind, he walks toward the man, and pulls out a key. He bends, and the man immediately cowers away once again as Hunt does the unthinkable. He unlocks the handcuffs, and turns his back on the man. Now completely confused, Danny Moreno stands, rubbing life back into his wrists.

"Here is my deal for you, Danny," he tells the younger man. "I like you. Somewhere deep inside you there is a streak of honor. It showed itself under great duress. Normally, it is the exact opposite that occurs. Deep inside you, Danny, is a man, not a monster like myself."

Hunt turns back, now facing the confused man.

"If you want to remain alive, Danny, then from today forward, you're going to work for me," Hunt tells him. "I work in the employ of a certain governmental . . . well, let's just say I work in secret. But I can only do so much without knowledge, without good data. I have people around the world who play this role for me. They feed me useful information, at useful times. I would like to add you to the mix."

Danny Moreno's face cannot hide the surprise that paints it – as he considers his luck that he might go from certain sudden death, to undercover espionage in a blink of an eye.

"You gave me a name," Hunt continues, "but were willing to die before giving up someone innocent just to save your own skin. That is precisely the type of person I need. That is precisely the type of person I trust. Can I trust you, Danny?"

"Yeah, man," Danny offers without a smile, without hesitation. "You can trust me."

"Good," Hunt tells him as he places his pistol back in the shoulder holster. "Now, you can start by telling me where to find Rodney . . ."

"Simmons," Danny reminds him.

"That's right," Hunt smiles, pleased that Moreno has passed this first little subliminal test. "Rodney Simmons. Tell me where I can find Mr. Simmons."


	14. Chapter 14

**Monster: Chapter 14**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 13: Goose Island, just south of the Main Tangier Island, 11:26 p.m.**_

Jason sits back, allowing the sweet coffee to awaken his taste buds, a smile forming on his face. His eyes closed, he is reliving last night's highly pleasing activities. He turns, looking back to the bed, at the cute blonde who still lies sleeping in his bed. He'll have to ask her for her name when she wakes up. There wasn't a lot of talking going on in the bar last night – far too loud. And when they got to his apartment afterward, well, there wasn't a lot of talking going on here either.

He opens his eyes, leaning forward to turn on the laptop computer on his desk. Half a minute later, he pulls up the video feed from the island, and his stomach does a quick flip flop. His screen remains black. He clicks to refresh the image. Nothing. He closes the feed application, then restarts it. Still nothing. Now he's concerned. This isn't good. He picks up the phone and dials quickly. Seconds later, Rodney Simmons answers.

"Yo, Jason, what's up?" Rodney asks in greeting.

"Try pulling up the island feed," Jason tells him, the worry in his voice."

"Why? What's going on?" the younger Simmons asks.

"Not sure, but I can't get the feed. See if you can pull it up," Jason tells him.

"Okay, hold on a sec," Rodney instructs him, but seconds later the bad news is verified by the young black man.

"Damn, me neither," Rodney tells him, and both men shake off a shudder. So far this operation has gone relatively smoothly, save for a stupid pilot error that won't be happening again. This, however, can be a disaster. They need the video feed up, to make sure all is well on the island. No video feed means a trip to the compound. Nothing good can come from that, both men realize this. A trip to the compound to fix the video feed means they have to land. Landing can potentially give away their identities. That's a non-starter.

"I'll call her," Rodney tells him. "Let's see how she wants to play this. I'll get back with you."

The phone goes dead in Jason's ear, giving him plenty of opportunity to wonder. Elizabeth Bracken can be charming and social. She can also be caustic and serial when things don't go as planned. And the loss of the video feed certainly qualifies as things not going as planned. It only takes a minute for Rodney to return his call.

"No answer," Rodney Simmons says, and the dejection is clear in his voice.

"What now?" Jason asks, already dreading the response he knows is coming.

"You're going to have to go out there, man," Simmons tells him. "There is no way we can lose contact with what is going on out there. We'll both turn into fertilizer, you know this."

Jason sighs, dropping into his chair, his head falling backwards. This is great – just great. A trip out to the compound won't take that long. He's been somewhat captive himself, stuck in this bed and breakfast on the main Tangier Island. It's nice, but it's not New York City. He misses home. He's going to have to land tomorrow at the compound. He'll take Perry Sanders with him. And Frank to fly the chopper in.

"Give me an hour," he tells the man back in New York. "I will take Frank and Perry with me. I will let you know what I find."

'Good enough," Rodney Simmons tells him, with a subtle warning as he signs off. "And remember, no funny stuff – get in, get out, get back."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Jason reminds him, clicking off to end the call, and immediately calling Frank Perkins. It's been a while since he has used Frank, but Perkins is always looking for a reason to get away from Virginia Beach. This is good enough as any.

_**Day 13: The Tangier Islands, 2:27 p.m.**_

"Kate, take a look at this," Keith Hopkins yells over to his passenger, as he points downward to his left, banking the small Cessna to give Kate a better view. They've been flying over the islands for four hours now, and until this moment, nothing seemed promising. As she lifts out of her seat to obtain a better view, her heart leaps. Passing below them over Hopkin's left shoulder is – clear as day – a single story cabin. But around the cabin is what has caught both of their attentions.

A large, barbed-wire fence.

"That could be it," he tells her as he lifts the plane back in the air, and banks hard left to turn the craft around to pass over with another flyby. This time, he drops his altitude to roughly seventy five feet as they pass by. There is no trace or sighting of Richard Castle, which is slightly concerning. However, the small compound that they see below them is exactly as Kate has imagined it would look, given the videos that she has watched countless times. And she doesn't see any lions. That's good news as well.

"We can't land here," he tells her, and she nods to the obvious declaration. There's no room to land or take off – not with the Cessna. "We have two options. Option one – we come in by land. The only problem is you said there are lions nearby. That leaves option two – we come in by chopper, and land in the middle of this thing.

"My vote is the chopper," she agrees with a chuckle.

"I second that. Chopper it is," he laughs with her, banking the plane now back south, towards the airport.

"Let's go back to the airport," he continues. "Switch to the chopper – we can land that baby in there easy enough, grab your boyfriend and get the hell out of dodge – that is, assuming we can overpower his captors."

"That won't be a problem," Kate says out loud, but in truth, she doesn't think that is going to be an option to deal with. Everything inside her screams that Castle is down there alone, isolated. Still, she merely nods her head, excitement building inside her, despite her best efforts to remain calm. After almost two full weeks, she can finally see the light at the end of this tunnel. She glances at her watch.

2:32 p.m.

Fifteen minutes to get back and land at the airport. Hopefully less than half an hour to get a chopper ready to go. Yeah, inside an hour they should be back here, landing in the opening. She glances back at the compound behind them, hoping against hope to see him exit the cabin. Just some physical proof that he really is there.

"We'll be back within the hour - easy," Hopkins confirms for her. Satisfied, she sits back in the seat, closing her eyes, giving a prayer of thanks.

"Thank you," she also yells over to Hopkins, who is taking the plane up a few hundred feet as they head back to the airport.

_**Day 13: The Compound on an isolated Tangier Island, 2:29 p.m.**_

Richard Castle is frustrated beyond belief. He swears that he hears something outside – something new and different. He is dying to rush outside to find the source of his interest. Perhaps it is just the unrealistic hope beyond hope that settles on a human being, once pushed beyond their limits – but he swears it sounds like an airplane. And it sounds like it is flying low.

"C'mon!" he curses at himself, sitting on the single toilet in his cabin, frustrated that of all times for nature to demand relief, it had to be now? Two minutes later, he is rushing outside, looking upward in the sky, trying to find the source of the sound. Looking in all directions, he falls to his knees in frustration as he watches the small plane flying away, and pulling upward back into the sky – further away from him.

Away from freedom.

He sighs, frowning, but refuses to allow the despondent gloom to settle in. This would have been an unexpected surprise, for certain, to be discovered and rescued. But right now, he has to focus. Last night, in the late evening after the storm had passed, he had climbed back into the tree and cut the power cord away from the video camera. Even better, however, he had been following the power cable down through the fake trunk walls attached to the tree branches and trunk. Ripping the cord downward, he had been able to follow the cord, pulling it up from the ground. Fortunately, it had only been buried in a couple of inches deep, and with the proper amount of pressure, he had pulled up roughly thirty feet of cable before his hopes had been crushed.

The cable extends underneath the fence to the other side. The source of power is on the other side of the fence.

With them.

His discouragement, however, had quickly given way to inspiration. Cutting another end of the cable, just before the fence, he now has a weapon – roughly twenty-five feet in length. He's cut this in half, to give himself two cords. He will find some use for them. He knows they will be coming, sometime today or tomorrow. And he will be ready.

He walks to the tree on the southern side of the compound, and takes his place underneath the branches. To wait. He knows they will be coming, and he knows he will only have seconds to act once he hears the sounds of the chopper blades.

_**Day 13: Less than Half an hour later on the Compound at Tangier Island, 2:58 p.m.**_

Richard Castle scurries – that's really the best word for it – up the large tree, hiding in the canopy of branches and leaves as he hears the approaching chopper. He's ditched the orange clothing – those will be too easy to see from the air. He wants them assuming he's in the cabin. Not here, perched and ready to attack. He steels himself, breathing deeply now – trying to calm his nerves, but allowing the massive adrenaline rush to give him that edge he knows he will need.

It's going to be a struggle – a fight to the finish, he knows. He can't allow them to leave. He's got to get out of here today. If he is unsuccessful, who knows when they will return? Who knows _if_ they will return? And if he injures anyone – or worse – in the struggle but doesn't escape . . . well, he knows that the kid gloves they've used with him up to this point will be off for certain, no doubt about that.

He hears – and barely sees – the chopper hovering over the compound, getting closer. Closer.

"_They are landing. This is it,"_ he tells himself, forcing himself to smile, just to give himself that last jolt of insane confidence he's going to need to pull this off. He checks the power cord wrapped around his shoulder like a water hose, and double checks the two metal can tops, touching their sharp edges. Satisfied that he has done all he can – both at the cabin and here in the tree, he crouches, and waits. The words of his father rush back to him. For a moment, he is back in Paris, in the old building across from where his daughter is being held. He remembers the instructions from his father.

"_What if they try to stop us?"_ Castle had asked the CIA operative when Jackson Hunt explained his plan for freeing Alexis from her prison. The answer from his father had been short, succinct, and a life lesson he will use today.

"_Don't let them!"_ That was all he said. Those words apply today, as Castle hears the first man hit the ground, calling his name.

"Richard Castle! Come out here," Jason yells. Perry Sanders follows toward him, but Jason waves him off.

"I've got the cabin," Jason tells him. "You go check on the camera, see if you can find out what's wrong," he tells the man. Perry is far more the techno-geek than Jason, and Jason knows the man can get things fixed far more quickly than he can.

"Got it," Sanders tells him, jogging toward the tree.

Jason's carefully-planned world quickly begins to crumble as he grabs the door knob on the cabin door to open it. Unbeknownst to Jason, Richard Castle has booby-trapped the door, splicing two can tops to the door knob with a short piece of wire from the power cord of the video camera. Castle had felt very proud of himself with this one, never really believing that he would ever have the opportunity – or the means – to pull off a MacGyver-type escape.

The man's fingers bite hard into the sharpened edges of the can tops, cutting deeply into his hand. He screams in pain, just as Sanders gets to the tree, underneath Castle and just to the side of him by roughly two feet. Sanders turns his head back toward the cabin, anxious to see the source of the screaming by Jason – his first thought, of course, being the lions.

As Sanders turns his head, Castle takes one last second for a quick prayer, and then launches himself down, falling a good twelve feet or so, landing on top of Sanders.

"_Don't let them!"_ echoes in his mind, as he –without mercy or hesitation – swings the twin can tops in his hands, slashing through the neck of Perry Sanders, oblivious to the immediate spray of blood that coats his chest and chin.

"_Don't let them!"_ rings in his ears as he sprints the twenty five to thirty feet to Jason, making it to the man who – too late – senses his presence as Castle pummels him with three, four, five punches in succession. They aren't efficient, they are looping roundhouse punches, but they do their job, rendering his opponent close to unconscious. He then turns his attention to the chopper, and the pilot, who – yeah, as he expected, is gunning the engines back up – opting for a hasty retreat.

He sprints, his lungs burning – still pushing on pure adrenaline alone – allowing the fear to drive him, not overtake him. He dives into the back compartment of the old Army Huey helicopter, just as it lifts off the ground. Castle doesn't have a gun. He's wearing tennis shoes and boxers. That's all he has left, along with the power cord wrapped around his shoulder.

Frank turns toward Castle, pistol in hand – unsure of what to do, as he lifts the chopper upward. He is under strict instructions not to harm the writer. And word of poor Phil Blackman's fate – a friend to many of the men involved in the heist of Richard Castle – served its purpose, putting the fear of Elizabeth Bracken into the crew. His hesitancy costs him, as the chopper tilts just too far as it lifts, catching the top of the barbed wire fence with the rotating blades. The craft jerks hard, spinning 180 degrees before Frank gets control back again. But now it is too late, as a thirty foot section of fence disappears, catching in the blades, pulling the craft downward. The craft lands with a heavy thud, glancing off the ground as Frank attempts to get the chopper airborne again.

Castle's mind is racing, almost paralyzing the writer who is just steps from freedom. The fence on this section is down, and the door to the chopper is open. He can take his chances on the ground – as they are now on the opposite side of the demolished fence. Or he can take his chances in the air. Convinced that this pilot isn't going to fly him anywhere, he makes his move, launching himself out of the helicopter, falling three feet to the ground, when he hears the small blast from the gun in Frank Perkins' hand. Immediately, the totally unexpected pain tears through his shoulder, as he falls to the ground. His father's words continue to bludgeon his senses.

"_What if they try to stop us?"_

"_Don't let them!"_

The words drive him up and onward, running, sprinting into the trees and brush of the island, completely unaware of the two large beasts that have run parallel to him, some twenty yards to his left, toward the compound. As it is, he makes good distance, traveling west as planned, breathing hard, sweating profusely, and swallowing the urge to scream. Fifty yards into the brush, he loses that battle.

"Damn, but getting shot hurts like hell!" he finally yells at the top of his lungs, pushing his legs forward, faster. Had he still been close to the compound, he would have heard the horrific screams of Jason, who is meeting Richard Castle's former companions face to face.

Behind him, rising up and away from the compound, Frank Perkins looks down at the carnage below him, and makes the quick decision that he is simply going to disappear. There is no way he is going to face the woman, not with this epic failure, not with him being the lone survivor. Not with him having no idea where Richard Castle is. Opting for flight, he rises into the sky and banks southward, toward the airport. An hour later, he will be in his single-engine plane, flying in a southwesterly direction, never to be seen again.

Step after step, Castle runs. Fate has been kind to him, as the two weeks of running inside the compound, along with the fear of getting eaten – or worse – drive his tired and burning legs onward. Above him, a second helicopter flies in, toward the compound. Unfortunately, Richard Castle only hears the helicopter. He has no reason to even suspect that this chopper carries Keith Hopkins and Kate Beckett, who are making their way to the compound. Hearing the chopper blades, it is only logical for him to believe it to be his captors searching for him. So he takes refuge in the trees, hiding from the very people who could grant him the complete freedom he seeks.

He hides, cowering, almost whimpering for a few seconds. Satisfied that the chopper is gone, he stands again – and this time it is harder. He's losing blood, he knows this, but he has to keep going. Screaming, yelling, drawing strength from the entire episode, he pushes onward and reaches the beach opening up to the Chesapeake Bay.

He stops for a moment, checking his wound. Realizing that he feels pain on both sides of his shoulder, he uses his fingers along with a quick glance down to confirm his suspicion. Yeah, it was a clean shot, through and through. No bullet, just an entry and an exit wound. He thanks the heavens for the small piece of power cord still wrapped around his good shoulder. Modesty no longer even close to being a priority, he takes his boxers off, and wraps the boxers around his shoulder, tying it off with his free hand. It takes a good five minutes to get it right with only one good arm.

Now, naked, but free, the writer walks along the beach, stumbling slightly in the surf. He wants nothing more than to just fall into the cool waters, but knows the searing pain in his shoulder will only escalate with such a move.

"Oh my God!" he bellows in laughter, as he sees the small dinghy in the distance along the shoreline. Willing himself with the last portions of strength that ebb quickly from his tired body, he reaches the small wooden craft – no more than nine feet in length. It doesn't look to be in the best shape, but it will have to do. It's got only one paddle.

"_So what," _he thinks to himself._ "I only have one good arm," _he chuckles – wondering if the delirious stage is setting in now that the adrenaline rush is long gone, replaced by tired arms, legs that burn and feel like rubber, and a shoulder that is just absolutely killing him.

He pushes off into the surf with the small, beat-up, wooden craft, hopping in and stroking with the paddle for five minutes – then another five minutes, and then another five minutes – putting as much distance between him and this hellish island as he possibly can. With each stroke, he sees his own bloodstained hands, hands that have now murdered another human being. Hands that bludgeoned another man into submission. He idly wonders what kind of monster he has become, before unconsciousness mercifully claims him, and he begins to drift north in the bay.

_**Day 13: The Compound on an isolated Tangier Island, 3:15 p.m.**_

The hell that opens up from below for Keith Hopkins and Kate Beckett pushes a scream from her, from deep in her lungs. The almost peaceful sight that she remembered from less than an hour ago is now a full-fledged battleground. Almost an entire section of the protective fence is shredded and on the ground. There is trail of blood – a heavy trail, bright red – that runs from roughly ten feet in front of the cabin all the way into the wooded trees outside the compound.

Seconds after landing, Kate rushes out, gun in hand, searching for survivors to whatever horror that has happened here. She sees the body laying at the base of the tree, and – her heart in her throat – she runs to the body, turning it over. She is overcome with emotion – horror as she views the shredded neck of Perry Sanders, and joy as she realizes she has no idea who this man is. But it isn't Richard Castle.

"What in the hell happened here?" Keith Hopkins asks, eyes widening.

"I don't know, but it just happened within the past few minutes," she says, pointing to the fresh kill here under the tree, and then the trail of blood leading out into the trees. She quickly jogs to the cabin. He's not here. She knows this, in her gut, she knows that he is gone. If he ever was here. Reaching for the door, she spots the fresh blood stains on the door knob, and smiles.

Could he really be this resourceful? Could all of this that she sees here be the handiwork of the man she loves? This can't be the handiwork of the man she knows as a writer, can it? Sure, he's always been helpful – even more than helpful – with their cases. But the very notion that Richard Castle could be capable of what she is seeing is something Kate Beckett can't get her head around.

She pushes the door open, and steps inside. Looking to the right, she sees the box, and walks toward it. There are empty cans of food, along with a few unopened cans as well. The tears well up in her eyes as she begins to imagine the past two weeks for her fiancée. She turns, and sees the single toilet in the corner, the only appliance, the only thing resembling furniture, other than the twin bed.

"Prison," she says aloud.

"What's that?" Hopkins asks, coming up behind her.

"They kept him as a prisoner. This is a prison," she says softly, still fighting the tears that burn to overflow. "Isolated, solitary confinement."

She glances at one of the walls, and that's when Kate Beckett's world explodes for good. She walks to the wall, immediately recognizing his handwriting. She reads the words of love, the love letters that he wrote each and every day to her. The tears pour freely, the sobs echoing throughout the cabin, as she places her fingers on the writing, the only thing remaining of Richard Castle in this place. She allows her lips to touch the wall, to touch the individual letters written just for her, and allows her tears to mix with the black marker ink.

She reads each note, each letter, before she feels Hopkins' hand on her shoulder.

"Detective Beckett," he tells her softly, but firmly, "C'mon. We have to get out of here. Those beasts are still around – they can't have gone far. There's nowhere else for them to go!"

Kate knows the truth in his words. But she cannot tear herself away from the wall, the words written there. Is this going to be all that she has left from Richard Castle?

"Detective . . . let's go," he pleads again. Quickly, she takes her phone out, and starts taking pictures – one, then a second, then a third, of all of the notes, the letters on the wall. If this is going to be his final gift to her, then she will make sure that it is a permanent one.

Finally, knowing they can't wait any longer, and uncertain of whether or not the growls he hears are actually there or just in his mind, Keith Hopkins drags Kate Beckett away, out of the cabin, and roughly pushes her into the helicopter.

"He was here," she says softly, tears continuing to fall. "He was here."


	15. Chapter 15

**Monster: Chapter 15**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 14: Somewhere in New York City, 6:09 a.m.**_

The ringing phone – at this time of the morning – is an unwelcome noise in the ear of Rodney Simmons, who is sleeping off a long and prosperous evening. He reaches across to the nightstand to retrieve his cell phone, answering groggily.

"This had better be good, at this hour," he answers, not even bothering to check the caller ID.

"It's Frank, man," Frank Perkins replies quickly. The pilot has had a severe change of heart in the past twelve or so hours. He knows there is no place on earth he can hide from these people, but he is still going to try. But he also figures his chances are better if he can do something to make amends to them.

"What's up, Frank," Rodney asks, then suddenly stirs awake, the cobwebs of sleep falling off like icicles. Why is Frank calling him, instead of Jason? Knowing that something has gone wrong, Rodney Simmons is now alert and worried.

"We had a problem, man," Frank says nervously. "A big problem."

"Explain," Simmons says succinctly, wondering why the delay. If something had gone wrong, why is he only hearing about it now? These guys went out there yesterday, mid-afternoon.

"The writer . . . Castle . . . he was waiting for us," Perkins replies, the worry clear in his voice.

"Of course he was waiting for you!" Rodney explodes. "He had nowhere to go, nothing to do! What do you mean-"

"Rodney!" Franks says more forcefully, clearly agitated now. "He was waiting for us! It was a trap. He's the one who disabled the camera."

There is silence on the phone for a good five or six seconds as Rodney Simmons considers this new information. A trap. Not a storm-related outage. Not a simple malfunction. A deliberate attempt on the part of Mr. Richard Castle to lure them out to him. A successful attempt, at that.

"Okay, explain yourself, Frank," Rodney says, a little of the edge leaving his voice now.

"We got there and landed," Frank begins. "Jason and Perry hopped out to check things out. Castle was nowhere in sight. So Jason goes to the cabin while Perry goes over to the tree to check out the camera."

He pauses to catch his breath, get his thoughts straight, but Simmons is having none of it.

"And?" Simmons cries out, the edge creeping back into his voice. "And?"

"And he had booby trapped the door. Somehow Jason sliced his hand all up trying to open the door," Frank continues. "While he is screaming and falling all over the ground, Perry goes to the tree and apparently Castle had been hiding up in the tree. Somehow he's managed to get something sharp. He jumps down on him and he just carves poor Perry up, man. I swear there was blood spurting everywhere. Then he runs over to Jason and just pummels poor Jason to bits. I –"

"Hold on, man," Rodney says, stopping Frank's story in mid-sentence. "You're telling me that a fucking writer . . . not a soldier, not an athlete, not some closet-UFC fighter . . . but a _writer_ . . . who, by the way, has been stranded on an island, with barely any food for two weeks . . . you're telling me _this_ boy goes all Jason Bourne, Triple-X on our guys? That's what you're telling me?"

Right at this moment now, Frank Perkins is re-thinking his decision to circle back and make amends. Perhaps the brighter move would have been simply to disappear after all, letting everyone think that all three of them – Jason, Perry and Frank – perished somehow during their visit to the island compound. After all, he knows Perry was dead. Way too much blood being sprayed out of Perry's neck. And Jason? Well, once Frank had gotten the chopper back up in the air, there were two things he saw. One, he saw the writer running off into the brush.

The second thing? That was far worse. Circling back toward the compound to land and check on Jason, he had seen those huge monsters hauling Jason's body off into the brush. That was a sight he will take to his grave. And now this guy – Rodney – is sitting back in New York on his ass, giving him a hard time?

"You know what, Rodney," Frank says, summoning the courage and deciding – now once and for all – that he is out of here permanently, "here's what you need to know. You weren't there. You have no idea what went down. But I will tell you – and this is the really bad news – Castle is gone. During the scuffle, part of the fence came down, and he got away, and the lions got in there and got poor Jason. That's what happened. Good luck finding the guy."

Frank is about to hang up when Rodney's yelling stops him from hitting the END button on his phone.

"Wait a minute – wait a minute, Frank. You said he's gone? Gone where?"

"How should I know?" Perkins responds. "I was –"

Frank's explanation is cut short, he stops his words as he hears the commotion on the other end. He hears Rodney, and another voice as well. Rodney doesn't sound happy.

"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my place?" Rodney asks the visitor with indignation.

A hard slap from the head of a pistol across his forehead causes the mobster's son to bellow in pain and surprise, while Jackson Hunt takes the phone from him.

"I'm sorry, Frank – that _is_ your name, correct?" Hunt says calmly into the phone.

"Uh . . . yeah, man, that's my-"

"Good, Frank. Now Rodney is a little busy at the moment. He's going to have to call you back. Well, _maybe_ he will call you back."

Hunt backhands Rodney Simmons with the pistol again, this time with a little more force, as the man falls backwards onto the bed. There is blood flowing down onto his face now.

"Okay, I'll be honest with you, Frank. Rodney probably won't be making that call," Hunt chuckles. "Good talking to you, though."

With that, Jackson Hunt hangs up the phone. He's listened in on the conversation, and although he has only heard one side of the story, it's enough to put together a plausible explanation. No matter, Rodney will tell him the rest. Yeah, Rodney is getting ready to sing like a songbird.

Back in Miami, at the airport, Frank Perkins is now officially scared for his life. He's heard enough rumblings from his contacts in New York City to wager a guess as to the identity of the stranger on the phone. And judging by his parting words, Rodney Simmons' remaining time in this life just took a major hit. He considers his options, which run the gamut, for certain. He can disappear. That's what he wants to do, more than anything else.

The problem is – he knows the Brackens. More specifically, he knows Elizabeth Bracken. He has watched the elaborate scheme she put into place, all over a man who is simply _associated with _someone she considers her enemy. No, Elizabeth Bracken is not a person to make an enemy of, he knows this. So, in the end, there really is no choice. No choice at all, he decides, as he picks up the phone and makes the phone call he never dreamed he would have to make. Frank air-marks the sign of the cross on his chest as his hits SEND on his cell phone. He's going to need all the help he can get.

_**Day 14: At Rodney Simmons' Apartment in New York City, 6:15 a.m.**_

"You don't understand, man, she will kill me," Rodney Simmons pleads, wiping the heavy flow of blood that is pouring down his face from the pistol-whip wound on his forehead.

"No, Rodney, _you_ don't seem to understand. _I'm_ going to kill you," Jackson Hunt counters calmly no inflection in his voice. He has pulled a chair next to the bed and now sits there, legs crossed, his gun under his own cheek, as if scratching an itch.

"You shouldn't be worried about whoever _'she'_ is," he tells the frightened man. "You should be worried about me."

"Yeah," Rodney counters bravely, "but she'll feed me to her monsters."

"You still don't understand, Rodney," Hunt chuckles again, and his smile almost causes Rodney Simmons to lose his bowels. "I _am_ a monster."

Like Frank Perkins, Rodney Simmons now considers his dwindling options, and decides that _maybe_ getting killed is preferable to _definitely_ getting killed. And he is definitely on the wrong end of things right now. He silently curses himself for even agreeing to get into this entire crapshoot. It sounded like such a good idea at first, karma for certain. He did it to honor his dad, in some ways. He now realizes, however, that this is exactly the sort of game his now-deceased father would have avoided at all costs.

"_Personal vendettas never end well, son."_ It was something dear old dad Vulcan Simmons had tried to impart to his son many time, over many years. It is a shame that lesson didn't stick with Rodney.

"His name is Benny Chester," Rodney tells the man holding the gun – and his life – in his hand. "Silent Benny. He's a contractor we always use for . . . for clandestine operations."

Jackson Hunt, the long-time CIA spy and contractor himself, cannot help but laugh at Rodney's choice of words. As if this man cowering on the bed has any idea of what a truly clandestine operation looks like. Poor kid probably can't even spell the words, and he thinks he is a part of one? Oh, this is too rich, indeed.

Undeterred by Hunt's laughter, Rodney continues.

"I needed his opinion on moving a couple of lions."

His laughter dying down, Hunt is still chuckling as he interrupts Rodney's fantastic story.

"I can't believe this was all your idea, Rodney," he tells him. "No offense. But you mentioned a 'she'. Now Rodney, I am a well-traveled man, but I don't know any _"she's"_ named Benny."

"Man, I can't!" Rodney exclaims, the fear evident in his voice. "You don't understand. She will absolutely –"

He reconsiders his words as he sees the darkening eyes of the man across from him, who is now slowly allowing the barrel of the gun to drop toward his . . .

"_Oh, God, he is pointing that thing at my crotch."_

"Okay, Okay, man," he whimpers, knowing that – either way now – he is a dead man. "It was Bracken."

"Bracken's in jail," Hunt says, warily, allowing the gun barrel to dip lower.

"Not _him_," Rodney explains, with a bit of actual disgust in his voice. "Her! Elizabeth Bracken."

"Do tell," Jackson Hunt replies, his eyebrows raised. This is curious, very interesting information. There have been rumblings of who really wore the pants in that power couple, but William Bracken's stature, just his physical presence usually was enough to render such musings moot. Now, however, here sits a man who knows his life is hanging in the balance, and he is clearly more fearful of the wife than he is the husband. Hell, he is almost as afraid of her as he is a man that is holding a gun on him.

Yeah, curious indeed.

"But I beg you man, don't tell her I said anything," Rodney pleads once again. Jackson Hunt simply smiles, nodding his head.

_**Day 14: At Miami International Airport, 6:16 a.m.**_

"Hello?" the female voice answers warily. Frank Perkins – for a brief instant – considers just hanging the phone up, and running to the jet bridge and boarding the plane headed for the Cayman Islands. Fortunately, not only has he been well paid, but well paid, in advance. A life of very questionable living is about to pay off nicely.

"This is Perkins," he tells the woman. "I know I am not supposed to call –"

"And yet that is precisely what you have done," Elizabeth Bracken states, calmly. Yeah, this was a mistake of epic proportions, calling her. Frank hears the initial boarding call for first class passengers for his flight, and is thankful for fate's small little favors.

"I'm calling because no one else can," he tells her, the strength returning to his voice. "Jason's dead, Perry's dead, and if what I just heard on the phone is accurate, Rodney's probably joining them."

Now clearly interested in what Frank Perkins has to say, Senator Bracken's wife softens her tone somewhat, enticing the man to continue.

"Explain, Frank," she tells him, using his first name as encouragement.

"I flew Jason and Perry into the compound yesterday, just as planned. But it was a trap. Castle was waiting for us, and somehow he had created some makeshift weapons," he says, talking quickly and eyeing the passengers who are now lined up at the gate, boarding the plane. The plane to freedom. He hears the second announcement, and begins to fidget.

"He killed Perry, sliced his neck. Had the cabin booby-trapped, and that got Jason. He tried jumping me in the chopper, but I shot him and kicked him out," he lies, trying to put himself in a better light. "I got up and out of there, but during our struggle, the chopper hit the top of the fence. Took part of it down. That's when the cats came in."

He stops talking now, allowing her to process what he has shared so far. After a few seconds of silence, he continues.

"Castle got away. He has a slug in the shoulder from where I got him as he tried to get away. The lions got Jason. I barely got out of there. I called Rodney to tell him, but as we were talking, someone showed up at his place. I think it is the guy leaving all the bodies, because the guy took the phone away from Rodney – and Rodney is a big guy. He told me Rodney probably wouldn't be calling me back. That's when I decided to call you."

A few more seconds pass, as Elizabeth Bracken considers the new information. Her husband's preliminary trial is set for tomorrow, and she sure as hell cannot have Richard Castle turning up – not after her carefully planned agenda has come off so flawlessly – she can't allow it to go to crap now at this late hour. She shakes herself out of those thoughts, remembering the man on the phone.

"Thank you, Frank," she tells him finally. "I will take care of things, and I truly appreciate the call," she says and is ready to sign off when she decides to add one last expression of gratitude.

"Oh, and Frank," she smiles, "I owe you one."

Frank Perkins suppresses a shudder as his listens to the dead air on his phone. Putting it away, he grabs his carry-on bag and runs to join the other passengers in line, anxious to put the mainland – and his former life – behind him.

Unknown to the unfortunate man, Elizabeth Bracken has heard the boarding announcements. It was apparent he was at an airport, and she glances down at the information she has written.

Miami to the Cayman Islands.

Smiling, she picks up the phone again, and this time dials another number. After three rings, a man answers the phone on the other end. He answers by hitting the pound button three times.

"Hello Benny," she greets the mute. His vocal chords damaged during an altercation, the man can no longer speak - hence the nickname 'Silent Benny'. But Benny has other ways of communicating, and while face-to-face meetings with the menacing man are usually preferred, phone conversations come off just fine, thank you very much.

Not waiting for a response she knows will not come, Elizabeth Bracken presses on. She knows he recognizes her voice.

"I have two problems Benny. First, the compound down in the bay. I need it to disappear. Immediately. Do you understand?"

She hears a single DTMF tone in her ear, and smiles.

"My second problem is Frank. He is running. And he is far too talkative. He is leaving right now for the Cayman Islands, from Miami. Can you take care of that also?"

Again, a single DTMF tone tells her that this is fine as well.

"Thank you, Benny. Same account as always?"

Another single DTMF tone acknowledges her request, and she gives him her final instructions.

"And Benny. If you encounter anyone, or anything on the island – use extreme prejudice."

A final DTMF tone is sent, and then both Benny and Elizabeth Bracken hang up. She considers the possibilities. Jason is dead, along with Perry. Frank will soon be joining them. In all likelihood, if Frank was telling the truth, then Rodney is dead as well. He is here in town, she will get someone to swing by his apartment. Or wait for the news report. Either way, that's not the priority.

The priority is Richard Castle. Her gut is telling her that he is alive – but her gut is also telling her that he didn't fly out. Frank kicked him out of the chopper, so he was on foot. On foot with a gunshot wound in the shoulder. Not a mortal wound, but running through the brush and marsh of an island, it's not exactly painless. No, most likely he is either still on the island somewhere, or, worst case, he found a boat and is somewhere in the bay. If he had been found, it would be all over the news, that much she knows. So although he is now free from her compound – he is probably far from truly free.

"I will worry about you in a couple of days, Mr. Castle," she says aloud, with a smile. For now, her focus returns to her husband, and his preliminary trial that begins tomorrow.


	16. Chapter 16

**Monster: Chapter 16**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 15: The Federal Courthouse in New York City, 9:27 a.m.**_

Kate Beckett sits near the back of the courtroom, awaiting her turn to be called to the witness chair, but her mind is – literally – hundreds of miles away.

She had returned to the city late last night on a charter flight, after spending as much time as possible, searching the lower Chesapeake Bay with Keith Hopkins. An early morning call yesterday from Jackson Hunt had given her both mild trepidation and limitless hope. He relayed to her what he had learned from Rodney Simmons – both from his phone conversation as well as a more direct interrogation.

There had been no reaction from Kate to Rodney's last name. That is, until Hunt had informed her exactly who Rodney's father had been. Kate had fumed while listening, wondering just how much of her haunted past would continue to rear its ugly head. The end result, however, was something she had to be pleased with.

Yes, Castle had been held at the compound – this she already knew from the wall of love she had seen with her own eyes. This, she is keeping to herself, for now.

Yes, Castle had been shot, but apparently in the shoulder. That will be painful, but he should live through it. Assuming, of course, he doesn't bleed out, which is highly unlikely.

And yes, Castle had escaped, and the trail of blood into the brush was not his.

However, weakened by a gunshot and likely bad eating habits for the past two weeks – dear God, has it been two weeks? Regardless, he had escaped and most likely – according to Jackson, come across some type of watercraft on the beach. That is the only explanation for why he has not turned up, either in some hospital or motel or whatever. He is on the run, he can't trust anyone, and most likely is out on the water somewhere.

So yesterday, she and Keith Hopkins had spent the afternoon searching open waters, from the Tangier Islands down south toward Norfolk, where her search had initially began. There had been no sighting of Castle in the water, and she has made sure that the Coast Guard from Norfolk is aware is the situation. They now are conducting a much more thorough search of the Chesapeake Bay.

Some laughter in the courtroom brings her back to the present. She finds nothing funny, finds absolutely no humor in the current proceedings. This preliminary hearing will determine – in the judge's eyes – whether or not enough evidence exists to send Senator William Bracken to trial. She knows she needs to be on her A-game, and curses the fates for allowing this to happen with Castle at this time, when she needs to be focused, when she needs her wits, when she . . .

The thought stops her in her tracks. Could it be this simple? Could this have all been an elaborate attempt to get her mind off these proceedings, or to even make sure she was too busy to attend this morning's preliminary hearing. She is, after all, the star witness for the prosecution.

A preliminary hearing, she knows, is not a trial. Instead, it is actually kind of a trial before the trial, where a judge reviews the evidence presented by the prosecution, and determines whether enough evidence exists to force the defendant to stand trial. The judge will use the 'probably cause' legal standard to decide whether the government has produced enough evidence to convince a reasonable jury that the defendant committed the crimes for which he or she is being charged.

Her thoughts are interrupted as she hears her name being called. _"Dammit,"_ she thinks, this is exactly what they might have wanted all along. Her distracted. She should be paying close attention to everything happening here, but instead, her mind has been on Castle.

Still she walks confidently to the front of the courtroom, ready to play her role, she hopes, ultimately resulting in the incarceration of William Bracken, the man responsible for her mother's murder. A few seconds later, she sits back, relaxing, waiting for the questions to begin. As she is a witness for the prosecution, she realizes this will start out comfortably. She also realizes, from experience, that the defense also has the opportunity to ask her questions as well.

The questions begin, and follow the script she anticipates. The prosecution asks about the tape, about her mother, about her shooting. Nothing unexpected. That is, until the defense attorney steps forward. She's a looker, standing easily five-feet eleven in her bare feet. But today she wears heels, of course. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a bun, and she walks with an air of confidence. Worse, however, is that she is as good as she looks.

"Detective Beckett," she begins, "first of all, let me thank you for your tremendous service to our city. The youngest woman detective in the city, with a case close ratio far above the city average. Trust me, detective, I know what it is like to be a woman in a man's world."

Kate knows, of course, what she is trying to do. Fortunately the judge does also.

"Miss Thompkins, please refrain from making remarks not relevant to this case," Judge Harkens says in his most official tone.

"My apologies, Your Honor," Karen Thompkins remarks with a smile. "I meant no disrespect to the court."

She turns to face Kate again, and this time, Kate can see plainly that the kid gloves are off. Greetings and salutations have been given, and a predator is now facing her.

"So, Detective Beckett," she begins, "tell me about this infamous audiotape."

"What do you want to know?" Kate asks.

"Well, for starters, did you plant it?"

"Objection," DA Walter Daniels states, standing quickly.

"Sustained," Judge Harkens says quickly. "Miss Thompkins, I will not tolerate any of your games here this morning."

"Again, my apologies, Your Honor," she says sweetly. In reality, all she is doing is feeling Kate Beckett out. This is a heavyweight boxing match. She has the opportunity to keep a powerful politician away from a trial, while doing mental combat with the city's prize detective. Careers are made off little battles such as this, and she's just throwing a few jabs here, waiting to see if she is dealing with a counterpuncher.

She turns her attention to Beckett once more, still interested in the audiotapes.

"So, tell me about the tape, Detective. I understand this was a recording of Captain Roy Montgomery."

"Is that a question or a comment, Miss Thompkins," Kate asks with a smile of her own.

"_Touché, Kate Beckett," _Karen Thompkins thinks to herself._ "You will be a challenge after all."_

Judge Harkens tries – barely successfully – to contain a smile, as Thompkins continues.

"It's a question, Detective," Thompkins gives her.

"Then yes, it was recorded by Captain Montgomery," Kate replies, affably.

"And how do we know that this was Senator Bracken's voice on this tape that we have heard, Detective?" she asks. "After all, this tape is rather old, if we are to believe what we are being told."

"It's his voice," Kate counters. "One need only listen closely to realize this."

"Perhaps," Thompkins argues, "but this tape – if we are to believe it – is almost two decades old. The quality on this is horrible. Your claim that it was recorded by Captain Roy Montgomery is very convenient, isn't it, Detective?"

"Convenient how?" Kate asks.

"_Check already,"_ Karen Thompkins smiles to herself. _"And in so few moves."_

"Convenient because he is dead and cannot answer for himself," Thompkins argues, now looking directly at Judge Harkens. Before Kate can muster another word, Thompkins continues.

"A distorted voice on a tape almost twenty years old, recorded by a dead man," Thompkins muses aloud, again glancing at the judge. "This is the evidence we want to use to destroy the career of a public servant in this country?"

Kate cannot speak fast enough before Karen turns her back on her, walking back towards her seat, all the while still talking.

"Who else, Detective, knew about this tape? Who else was aware of its existence?"

Kate tries to hide her crestfallen countenance, knowing where this is going, and now – for the first time – she is seriously concerned that the Senator might actually walk away from this. He, for his part, doesn't even look her way. Instead, he stares ahead at the judge and his attorney. He doesn't smile. He offers his most officious stance, sitting with his hands on the table in front of him.

Kate hesitates, and Thompkins seizes the moment to jab the knife and twist it slightly.

"That, Detective Beckett, was a question, not a comment."

"There was a man named Smith," Kate offers weakly.

"Smith?" Thompkins almost laughs. "What is his first name?"

"I believe his first name was Michael," Kate tells her. No, this isn't going well at all.

"Mike Smith?" Thompkins asks. "Pretty common name, don't you think? You couldn't have come up with a more imaginative name than Mike Smith, or John Doe?"

Thompkins doesn't give her time to answer, or the District Attorney a chance to object. Instead, she continues to press the issue regarding Mr. Smith.

"You mentioned him in the past tense, Detective," Thompkins smiles. "Why is that? Where is he now?"

"Because he is dead," Kate replies, trying with great difficulty to keep the frustration out of her voice. Thompkins is good, as good as her reputation.

"Really Detective Beckett?" Thompkins offers in mock surprise. "Again, that is somewhat convenient, don't you think?"

Kate knows not to answer the hypothetical question. She has to keep Judge Harkens thinking there is a real case here. He has the power to throw this whole thing out. Then where would she be? She would be all the way back to square one with her mother's murder – except now with no evidence, and public opinion believing she is out on some personal vendetta, a crusade of revenge based on emotions, not evidence.

"So," Thompkins continues, "we have two witnesses who can collaborate the veracity, the authenticity of this single piece of evidence, and they are both conveniently deceased. Who else, Detective? Who else can validate this tape – someone who is alive, I would hope, and someone who isn't emotionally involved in this, someone without a personal axe to grind against my client?"

"Richard Castle," Kate offers, knowing that she has to give the name, but also strongly suspecting now why her fiancée disappeared two weeks ago.

"Richard Castle?" Thompkins offers with smile and mock confusion. "Your fiancée, the writer? Perhaps you didn't understand my statement when I said someone not emotionally involved."

Before Kate can comment, Karen Thompkins changes tactics, glancing around the courtroom, as if looking for someone.

"Where is he?" she asks aloud. "Is Mr. Castle here today? I would love to talk with him, to ask him about this infamous, twenty-year old audio tape."

"I don't know," Kate admits, then adds, "We don't know where he is."

"I find this odd, Detective Beckett," Thompkins continues, now sensing blood, "that you are telling the court you don't know where your own fiancée is?"

"Don't you watch the news?" Kate asks her, the venom in her words clear to all in the courtroom.

"Oh that's right," Thompkins continues, undeterred. "He's disappeared."

"We believe he's been kidnapped," Kate remarks softly.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Thompkins replies quickly. "That's just pushing convenience to a new level, Detective," she adds angrily. "Two witnesses are dead, and another is kidnapped. Where is the ransom note? Where is the ransom letter? What communications have been sent to make us believe this is a kidnapping?"

"What else would it be?" Kate asks defensively, immediately regretting her question.

"It might be a well-known, life-long playboy getting cold feet," Thompkins argues, altering her gaze from Kate to Judge Harkens. "A man who has been twice-married, twice divorced, who for the past few years has been a page six regular here in the city. And it wouldn't be the first time the two of you have had a temporary split, would it, Detective Beckett?"

"I don't understand –"

"Isn't it true that two years ago, you and Mr. Castle began dating, and for the most part, moved in together?"

"Yes, that's true, but –"

"And isn't it true that after a year together, you suddenly took another job in Washington, D.C., leaving Mr. Castle here in New York?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"And isn't it true that this move initially caused problems between you and Mr. Castle?"

Kate hesitates again, trying desperately to come up with the right answer – a true answer that can deflect all of this attention away from her and back to the Senator. She recognize the ploy that Thompkins is very effectively using – discredit the witness.

"How long were you gone, Detective? A few weeks? A few months? How long has Mr. Castle been gone? Isn't this par for the course with you two? One leaves, the other stays?"

Thompkins allows her questions to hang in the air – noting the look on the Judge's face, knowing that slowly but surely, she is swaying him.

"How long has he been missing, Detective?" she asks again.

"Fourteen days," Kate responds quietly.

"And in these fourteen days, has there been a ransom note?"

"No," Kate replies.

"No ransom note," she repeats, glancing at the Judge again. "What kind of kidnapping is this? Is there any evidence at all that he has been taken?"

"There were two videos that have been sent," Kate replies, wondering where this line of questioning will lead. If Thompkins knows so much about the personal lives of she and Castle, then she _has_ to know about the videos.

"Where are these videos?" she asks. "Who were they sent to?"

"They were sent to Mayor Weldon," Kate replies, knowing that this, too, is going to look badly for her.

"Your fiancée – who can be a collaborative witness here this morning – is absent. You say he is kidnapped. There is no ransom note. No one has reached out to you, the fiancée. But a video is sent to our mayor? Not to you, not to anyone in Mr. Castle's family . . . but to our mayor?"

Turning to Judge Harkens, Thompkins makes her request.

"Judge Harkens, I'll play along. Can we see this supposed video? Can we get this from the mayor?"

"I have a copy as well," Kate adds, "given to me by His Honor."

"Detective Beckett, if the evidence was sent to our mayor, then I'd like to view what our mayor has from his unbiased hands – not yours," Thompkins tells her with a bit of manufactured anger.

Now turning to DA Daniels, she asks the older man for assistance of sorts.

"I can't produce evidence at these proceedings, of course," she comments, glancing between Daniels and the Judge Harkens. "Obviously, a video indicating that Mr. Castle hasn't just run off could lend credibility to Detective Beckett's claims."

"Would you like for this video in question to be entered in as evidence, Mr. Daniels?" Judge Harkens asks the district attorney.

Daniels considers this quickly. Kate Beckett is his top witness, and this hasn't gone well at all. Thompkins has successfully gotten the Judge to consider the plausibility of his witnesses and his evidence – and that is the whole purpose of this preliminary hearing: for the Judge to decide whether or not sufficient evidence exists to warrant a trial. Thompkins knows that the primary evidence is the audiotape with – presumably – the voices of Roy Montgomery and William Bracken, among others. The fact that it is an analog recording on tape, not a digital recording on disk or CD, was always a bit of a concern. The age of the tape – almost two decades old – was another concern. The voice in question on the tape certainly sounds like William Bracken, but only if you know that's who you are looking for. And the notion that someone could mimic or imitate the Senator cannot be ruled out. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that a U.S. politician was blackmailed.

No, this video might be necessary just to keep this thing together, and get things back on track. Fortunately, the mayor is also sitting in the courtroom, having already been selected as a potential material witness for the prosecution. Perhaps this can still be saved.

"Once Miss Thompkins has finished cross-examining Detective Beckett," Judge Harkens begins, "you can call His Honor to the stand, Mr. Daniels."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Thompkins replies affably. "I'm finished with Detective Beckett," she says, turning her back on Kate Beckett once again. "I have no more questions."

Mayor Bob Weldon takes the time to reach into his pocket, retrieving his cell phone and places a call to his office.

"Sarah," he states quickly, "The two videos of Richard Castle that were sent to me . . . yes, those in my desk . . . I need you to bring those to the courtroom . . . yes, we will need them . . . yes, right away, Sarah, thank you."

Suddenly, he hears Judge Harkens calling to him.

"Mr. Mayor, please approach the bench," Harkens tells him. Mayor Weldon quickly stands and walks to the front, and stands before the bench.

"Mr. Mayor, I'm going to assume that you didn't happen to just be carrying the videos in question with you this morning," Harkens says with a smile. Weldon smiles back as he answers.

"I like to be prepared, Your Honor, but no, I'm afraid not." The mayor, of course, has seen the videos multiple times, and is in no hurry to provide them, knowing that two points of view could be easily taken from viewing them.

"I also saw you on the phone a moment ago," Harkens continues. "Can I assume that you were on the phone with your office, asking someone to bring the videos here?"

"That would be correct again, Your Honor. She should be here within fifteen minutes or so."

"Good enough, Mr. Mayor," Harkens tells him. Then Judge Harkens addresses the courtroom at large.

"We will take a short break, and reconvene in half an hour."

With that, the gavel sounds against the bench, bringing the first round to a close.

_**Day 15: Somewhere in the northern part of Chesapeake Bay, 10:00 a.m.**_

Captain Jimmy "Snooky" Brown listens to the communications with his colleagues on board the MH-60 Jayhawk, as they search the northern waters of the Chesapeake Bay. They aren't sure what to be looking for, and are assuming it to be a small craft with a single person inside. They are fairly certain they aren't looking for any type of emergency floating device. The word they have is that their target likely found a small water craft and took to the waters of the Chesapeake at Tangier Island. With a northward current direction, they are estimating where the currents might have taken him in the past twenty-four hours.

"Anything AJ?" Brown asks the junior rescue man.

"Nothing, sir," AJ replies, his eyes still focused on the massive body of water below. "Nothing yet."

"Stay frosty, everyone," Brown tells the other three members of his crew. "It's a small target, I know, but this is what we do."

He glances at the gauges on his dash, paying particular attention to the fuel. Not a problem, so far, as the MH-60 has a flying range of roughly seven hundred nautical miles.

"If you're out here, Mr. Castle," he mutters to himself, "we will find you. Count on it."

_**Day 15: The Federal Courthouse in New York City, 10:30 a.m.**_

Judge Harkens has just called the court back into order, as the preliminary hearing for Senator William Bracken recommences. Without hesitation, he looks to District Attorney Daniels.

"Are you ready to begin, Mr. Daniels?" he asks.

"Yes, we are, Your Honor," Daniels replies quickly.

"Then call your witness, please," Judge Harkens says, now sitting back in his chair.

"Yes, Your Honor," Daniels agrees, and then turns to face Mayor Bob Weldon. "Mayor Weldon, please step forward to the witness stand."

For the second time this morning, Mayor Robert Weldon walks to the front of the courtroom, this time making a beeline to the witness stand. After being sworn in, he takes his seat, confident in his abilities to be what he needs to be today – an effective material witness for the prosecution.

"Mr. Mayor, there is a certain video . . . excuse me, sir, two videos that have been brought to our attention earlier this morning," the District Attorney begins. "It has been stated that these two videos of Mr. Richard Castle were sent to your attention. Is this true, Mr. Mayor?"

"Yes, it is," Mayor Weldon replies, knowing enough to answer only what has been asked.

"Do you know who sent these videos to you, sir?" Daniels asks.

"No, I do not," Weldon responds, his hands folded.

"Is Mr. Castle in these videos?"

"Yes, he is," Weldon answers again, very succinctly, giving nothing more than what is asked. He comes across as very professional, confident and official.

"Do you have the videos in question, Mr. Mayor," the DA asks.

"Yes I do," the mayor replies again, reaching inside his coat pocket and retrieving two discs. He hands both to Daniels, who makes a point of showing the videos to the defense attorney, and admitting them into the proceedings as evidence. There is no objection from Karen Thompson. Kate Beckett, however, who sits in the back of the room, would greatly object if she could. She knows what's on the videos. She knows how bad this could look, under the right – or wrong – type of cross-examination.

DA Daniels places the first video into the DVD player, which has hastily been set up with a projector and large screen for maximum viewing by all in the courtroom. Seconds later, those in the courtroom see what appears to be . . . well, no one can tell exactly what it is. There is open space, it looks to be a yard of some type, next to a barbed wire fence. Suddenly, the bouncing form of Richard Castle comes flying into view. He looks to be singing. He is playing air guitar. He is in boxers and tennis shoes, with his hair slicked back and wet. He looks – for all the world – to be having a great time.

Karen Thompkins thinks to herself that she should win some type of award for her ability to withhold the laughter that threatens to burst out from her lips. She clenches her fists, willing herself to remain professional, but hell, this is just too rich. Kidnapped? Not a chance.

Suddenly, Castle bounces backward, falling away from two lions that appear as the camera pans toward the right. Some in the courtroom gasp, while others laugh. The video ends, and the rustling noise in the courtroom starts rising as Judge Harkens bangs his gavel, bringing order to the room.

Kate holds her head in her hands, and if she had placed a glance at Mayor Weldon, she would see the nervous sweat now forming on his brow.

"There is a second video, Mr. Daniels?" the Judge asks, already knowing the answer. Judge Harkens, clearly, is in a bit of shock. He was expecting to see the standard kidnapping video, with a solemn prisoner staring at the camera, validating his existence, giving a date or timeframe, something along those lines. But what he has just seen looks more like a man on vacation, a man on safari who got too close to the fence protecting he and other guests from the wild animals they probably have paid great money to interact with.

"Yes, Your Honor," the district attorney replies, unable to keep the nervousness out of his voice. Across the aisle from him, Karen Thompkins barely masks a smirk, while Senator William Bracken remains motionless. Behind them, Elizabeth Bracken sits calmly, with no worries. She knows exactly what is on each tape.

Daniels replaces the first disc with the second, praying against all odds that it isn't as damaging as the first. Seconds later, the screen goes black again for a few seconds, before a title appears, giving the illusion that they are watching a home movie.

'A Day in the Life of Richard Castle' appears on the screen as a title, drawing chuckles from the courtroom, including Karen Thompkins. The title slowly fades, and suddenly, the unmistakable voice of Bobby McFerrin warbles throughout the courtroom.

_Here's a little song I wrote_

_You might want to sing it, note for note_

_Don't worry – be happy._

The laughter in the courtroom rises to almost movie-theatre levels, as the judge, the attorneys, the witnesses and family members all view what most definitely is not a kidnap/ransom video. Slowly the image of Richard Castle fades in, sitting in the shade, legs crossed and . . . apparently talking to the two lions across the fence who are sitting calmly. There is no indication from Castle's face or demeanor that he is afraid, and the only thing noticeably different is that his facial hair is . . . well, the fact that he _has_ facial hair, which normally he does not. The beginnings of a beard and mustache are clearly visible. Just another sign that he is – what he appears to be – on vacation, having a good time.

The video ends, and a very nervous District Attorney Daniels shuts the player off, as chuckles in the courtroom finally die down. He looks over at Mayor Weldon, still on the witness stand, who offers nothing in the way of explanation.

"These videos came to your attention, Mr. Mayor?" he asks again, simply stalling for time, trying to come up with a good line of questioning given the very damning circumstances now.

"Yes, they did," the mayor replies, now trying to add something, anything to help the cause. "I don't know who sent them, or why they came to my attention."

"_Checkmate,"_ Karen Thompkins thinks to herself, now unable to contain the smile on her face. She also cannot contain a glance back at Kate Beckett, her smile still intact. Their eyes meet and Thompkins intentionally hold the gaze – and her smile - for a second longer than necessary before turning her attention back to the mayor in the witness chair.

"No further questions, Your Honor," Daniels remarks with disappointment. This could barely have gone worse. Then again, he reconsiders that thought as Karen Thompkins quickly stands, approaching the mayor.

"I, on the other hand, respectfully have many questions, Your Honor," she says sweetly, addressing Judge Harkens, who grants her access to the witness.

"Mr. Mayor," she begins, "you know Richard Castle very well, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," the mayor replies, once again opting to give as little information as possible.

"You are long-time friends, poker players, you attend parties together. His daughter refers to you as her uncle. Yes, you know Richard Castle all too well, Mr. Mayor. Does he, in any way, look stressed to you in these videos?

She doesn't wait for an answer – not yet.

"Does he look frightened? Does he look in any way afraid? Or does he look like he is having a grand old time?"

The mayor stumbles for words, not at all the smooth politician he is. Not when it comes to his friend.

"Mr. Mayor, isn't this little escapade exactly the type of thing you would expect from Richard Castle?"

"Not anymore," he counters. "Not since he has been with Detective Beckett."

"Then why was this video – clearly proving that Mr. Castle isn't a victim of some kidnapping scheme – why was it sent to you, and not her? But a better question, Mr. Mayor, is why have you not made this video available to the public?"

"Mr. Castle is being treated as a missing person by the New York Police Department, Miss Thompkins," the mayor states, finding more courage with his words. "These videos are considered evidence, and not made public for that reason."

"Even though," Thompkins replies caustically, now going in for the kill, "there are citizens dying on our streets, being stalked by some madman. There are people dying, mercilessly and brutally, in the worst possible manners, by a deranged killer who looks for Mr. Castle, and who continues to tell us that – and I quote – 'someone knows where he is'. In the face of all of this, you and the NYPD have chosen to keep these videos hidden and silent – videos which clearly show a Richard Castle who is willingly off on some extended party somewhere where he doesn't want to be bothered."

"Another perspective," the mayor offers calmly, trying to regain control of the interrogation, "is that he is being held captive, and making the best of the situation. After all, most vacationers aren't fenced in behind barbed wire."

"For crying out loud, Your Honor," Thompkins says, addressing Judge Harkens. "Given the fact that there are lions out there, I would hope to heaven there is a strong fence!"

The laughter in the courtroom acts has her curtain call, as Thompkins relieves the mayor of the witness seat.

"I have no further questions for the mayor, Your Honor," she says, walking back to the defendants table where Senator Bracken now has the small rumblings of a smile forming on his face. Mayor Weldon stands and makes his way off the stand and back into his seat in the courtroom. He catches Kate Beckett's gaze, and neither of them say a word. No words are necessary. This has been a disaster.

"I do have one more question, Your Honor," Karen Thompkins continues, walking toward the Judge's bench, but stopping short. She walks in mini circles, talking to the courtroom at large along with Judge Harkens.

"My client is being held on charges that are unprecedented against a United States Senator. The evidence that forms the foundation of these charges is based upon an analog recording that is almost twenty years old, now somewhat distorted. We are asked to believe that this is the voice of a younger Senator Bracken, a man we now know had many enemies back in that time. We are asked to believe that a fledgling DA turned away the opportunity to take down city mobsters, but instead chose to blackmail these criminals. We are asked to believe this even though there is – and has never been – any evidence in the Senator's bank accounts – then or now – that supports any significant deposits of that kind. We are asked to believe that a Senator who has a clean record – both legally and morally – would lower himself to such a crime. We are asked to believe that this Senator also resorted to murder – multiple murders – in order to cover these crimes. And we are asked to believe this coming from the daughter of one of his alleged victims, a daughter who has used NYPD resources during her vendetta against my client. And finally, we are asked to believe that she waits until the various people who could collaborate this wild tale have either died, or disappeared. My question, Your Honor, is why are we having this preliminary hearing in the first place, and why my client – an esteemed Senator of our country, is being forced to go through this farce of justice, all because of one sad, vengeful, vindictive woman who has yet to deal with her mother's death that occurred over almost twenty years ago?"

Karen Thompkins walks slowly and deliberately to her table, taking her seat beside Senator Bracken. She looks straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone. She has thrown the gauntlet down, and now will not say another word.

The fate of her client – and the rapidly crumbling world of Kate Beckett – now sit in the hands of Judge Harkens, who wears a very disturbed look on his face.

_**Day 15: Twenty Minutes later, still in the Federal Courthouse in New York City**_

Kate Beckett sits, her head in her hands, stunned, willing herself to breathe – one breath at a time. She feels the blood pounding – one heartbeat at a time – in her temples, she feels the pressure of her heart heavy in her chest. Mayor Bob Weldon and Captain Victoria Gates sit on either side of her, knowing there are no words to say, as Senator William Bracken walks past her, his hand firmly grasping that of Elizabeth Bracken. He opens the door of the courtroom, and walks out exactly as Elizabeth had promised five days earlier.

A free man.

_**Day 15: Somewhere in the northern part of Chesapeake Bay, 11:27 a.m.**_

"What is it?" Captain Jimmy Brown asks excitedly, his eyes darting left and right as he holds the MH-60 chopper steady, hovering over the area as AJ has requested. AJ and Donny Morris both peer outside the open door, downward and roughly twenty yards ahead.

"You're right Donny-boy" AJ smiles excitedly, yelling in his mouthpiece. "Small craft, sir, about twenty yards astarboard toward the bow."

Brown lowers the aircraft, slowly moving forward until the happy yells of the crew bludgeon his ears. There, below them, is a small craft with . . . with a very naked man inside, curled in a fetal position. He is either sleeping or unconscious. No matter. They have found him. The hunt for Richard Castle is now over.

"Lower the basket," Captain Brown orders the crew, glancing at his gauges again.

"_Close,"_ he thinks to himself. _"It's going to be close, but we should make it."_ He mentally starts making plans to shorten the trip, landing well short of North Carolina.


	17. Chapter 17

**Monster: Chapter 17**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Day 15: Richard Castle's Loft, New York City, 12:21 p.m.**_

"Alexis! Martha! They found him!" Kate exclaims as she opens the door to the loft.

"What? Where?" Alexis screams excitedly.

"He was floating in the Chesapeake Bay, in a small boat," Kate tells her, her heart racing. In the past two minutes, she has gone from ultimate heartache to the opposite end of the spectrum. After over a decade, she had caught the man responsible for her mother's murder. And this morning she has watched him walk free. She had left the courtroom, numbly sliding into the taxi, and doesn't even remember giving the cabbie an address. Going to the precinct was out of the question. Home – even without Castle – seemed the best place for her right now. She vaguely remembers getting out of the cab, and making her way into the building. Stepping onto the elevator, she had gotten the call from the Naval Medical Center down near Norfolk.

"He's at the navy hospital now, recuperating," Kate tells the young woman. "I'm calling to get us a jet down there right now."

"I'll tell Grams," Alexis comments, smiling from ear to ear as she runs upstairs.

Senator William Bracken is hovering somewhere in the back of her mind, for certain, but for right now – Kate's focus is entirely on Richard Castle.

_**Day 15: The Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth, VA, 6:35 p.m.**_

Kate Becket sits across from the sleeping form of an extremely sunburned, very dehydrated Richard Castle, who has mercifully been out for the past couple of hours. His eyes are bandaged from sun exposure, and his shoulder is stitched up nicely, and bandaged heavily. Were he not wearing the standard white hospital gown, she would see that his entire body is sunburned badly, from over a day's exposure – naked - in the summer sun. With her first glance at her fiancée, Kate had uncharacteristically burst into tears – a symptom of both intense relief at his safe return and the shock of seeing him like . . . like this.

He is thinner – noticeably thinner. The rough, uneven edges of the beard and mustache are unfamiliar to her. His face isn't quite haggard, but certainly lacks the depth and definitely the spark, the shine she is used to. She runs her hands along his good arm, and is struck by the increased tone and definition in his muscles.

"He's been working out," she thinks to herself, now considering what his days and nights must have been like. Now that he is here, now that she can see him, it is apparent that despite the best efforts of the videos to show otherwise, he's been through the ringer. His arms are badly sunburned and filled with insect bite marks. She takes a closer look at his face and – sure enough – beneath the excess hair she sees the swelling of bite marks. She stands now, and pulls back his covers. He wears a hospital gown and his lower legs are exposed.

Filled with bite marks. And completely sunburned.

The tears that have welled up now flow freely, as she touches various parts of her husband-to-be, realizing quickly that no virtually no part of him escaped unscathed. She runs her hands along his legs, and is startled when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

"You must be Kate," the man in a long white coat surmises.

"Yes, I am," she offers. "Detective Kate Beckett."

"Major. Allan Windworth," he smiles affably. "I'm taking care of your . . . well, your almost husband, as I understand it."

"Almost," she agrees, wistfully, then gathering herself, she continues. "How is he, Doctor?"

"Dehydrated, suffering from mild infection, definite allergies at play here, gunshot wound to his shoulder, blistering on his face, and his feet, sunburned everywhere else. We kept him under and out of it most of yesterday and last night – he just needed a lot of antibiotics, some cream for the burns and a lot of sleep. All things considered, after being missing for two weeks and found floating in the Chesapeake, I'd say he's a pretty lucky man."

Hearing the doctor lay out everything that is wrong with him is almost too much, and Kate steps - or rather, she staggers backward, reaching behind her for the chair and flopping down again, next to the bedridden Castle.

"Yeah, I know, it's a lot to take in," the major agrees, nodding his head slightly. "But trust me, he's alive and is going to make a full recovery. Physically at least."

"What do you mean by that?" she asks, suddenly alarms going off in her head. That isn't the type of statement to be idly thrown about, especially by a doctor. What is he not telling her?

"Well, when they brought him in, he was hallucinating slightly. Talking about lions. Talking about beasts. He was naked in the small craft when they found him. And there were traces of blood under his fingertips. He probably tried to wash it away, but it was there. And I can tell you, it wasn't his. Now I'm not NCIS or anything, but I can probably hazard a guess that he wasn't shot while lying in the boat they found him in. All to say, physically he will be fine. Emotionally? Well, Detective, who knows what he has experienced these last couple of weeks . . ."

She nods, knowing full well what traumatic events can do to a person. For her, it resulted in an almost year-long, circle-the-wagons and don't-let-anyone-inside period of her life. One that she would just as soon forget.

"You mentioned NCIS," she says, finally gathering her thoughts again. "How is it that they brought him to this Navy hospital. Don't misunderstand, I am beyond grateful. But Castle is a civilian. How did –"

"I asked the same question, Detective," Major Windworth replies with a knowing smile. "Let's just say that your Mr. Castle has some very powerful friends somewhere. Somewhere high up. A call was made, and we have been ordered to give him the best care possible – no questions asked."

"Interesting," Kate muses aloud.

"I thought so, too," the major comments, now moving past the detective to inspect his patient.

"How are you doing, Mr. Castle?" he asks.

It isn't until now that Kate notices that Castle's hands have moved, now hovering over his bandaged eyes. He's finally awake. He utters a soft moan, clearly wondering where he is, what is happening. It breaks her heart, but she puts on the best face possible. He needs encouragement right now, she realizes.

"Let me get these for you," the Major tells Castle, as he takes out medical scissors from his coat pocket and begins to cut away the bandages from his eyes. Half a second later, Castle blinks his eyes, adjusting to the light – and welcomes in a sight he thought he might never see again.

"Castle," she says softly. "Rick . . ."

"Hey, beautiful," he whispers, and the floodgates open all over again. The major, seeing the reunion unfolding in front of him, quickly takes his leave. There is enough time to do a thorough check-over later. For now, he leaves the couple to something they haven't had for two weeks.

Each other.

"My God, Castle, I . . . you were . . . what in the world happened?" she finally gets out.

"You know – I really don't know," he replies, quickly licking his chapped and scarred lips. She stands and dashes around to the other side of the bed, and grabs the small cup of ice chips that sit on the stand next to his bed. He glances down at the IV sticking out of his left hand right below the wrist. She places a spoonful of the ice chips into his mouth, and he greedily laps up the cold liquid and chunks of ice.

"Thank you," he manages between coughs, as he has swallowed too much too quickly. Settling back into his bed and pillows, he glances over at her.

"When did they find me?"

"Yesterday, right before noon. That's what they told us."

"Us?" he asks.

"Alexis. Martha. They are both downstairs. I told them to get a sandwich and come back afterward," she tells him. "Alexis hasn't eaten all day, except for chips on the charter."

"Charter?" he chuckles. "Traveling in style, detective?" he asks, finally giving her a glimpse of the old Richard Castle.

"Didn't think you would mind," she smiles in return. He gives her hand a very light squeeze, and begins to say something, but is interrupted.

"What do you remember, Rick?" she asks.

"I was . . . it was . . . I was a captive. In jail. On a compound. Very little food, but plenty of water."

"Who took you?"

"I have no idea," he replies, and sees her confusion. "I'm serious, the only time I got a real good look at anyone was the last day, when they came looking for me. But whoever it was, they took good care of me . . . for the most part."

He licks his lips, and reaches for the ice chips.

"I've got it," she tells him, scooping up another spoonful of ice and placing it on his lips. He smiles, as he chews and swallows, and continues.

"I caught a fever. Insects. And those damn flies," he mutters, glancing down at his arms. Her gaze follows his to the bumps along his arms. They came a few days later. By helicopter. Dropped medicine. Flew away. Never landed. That's when I realized they were watching me. I realized there was a camera somewhere."

"They sent us two videos," she adds, filling in the story for him, as he nods in understanding.

"I finally found the camera," he tells her, closing his eyes, trying to relax. "I disabled it, figuring they would come in to fix it. When they came . . ."

He grows quiet, his eyes still closed but he is wincing. She can tell it has nothing to do with the pain in his shoulder. He is so drugged he wouldn't feet a fifty pound weight fall on his foot. No, it is something else.

"When they came?" she asks, wanting him to continue his story.

"I disabled it, figuring they would come back to fix it," he repeats, and her heart drops a shudder once again.

"And then they came, Rick?" she prompts again.

"When they came . . . they came, and I was ready for them," he replies softly, and another – this time – much stronger shudder floods through Kate.

"_What does he mean 'I was ready for them',"_ she wonders. This is Richard Castle, wonderful writer, great with his mind. But he's no ninja warrior, no ultimate fighter. She, again, wonders just what in the world happened on that island. Then she remembers the Major. What he said. Underneath Castle's fingertips.

The blood.

"Rick," she says softly, touching his hand. "What happened? What did -"

"I killed them!" he blurts out with venom. "I killed them," he repeats, as his hands start to shake, and a frustrated sob breaks free. Kate leans down to hug, to cradle her man, knowing that he is far more broken than he appears. At the last second, she eases up, knowing that if she just grabs on to him as she wishes, she will cause more pain and harm than good. She settles for a soft hug, pulling him close, allowing his head, his face to rest against her chest. She will change the subject for now. She can't imagine Richard Castle taking a life – and she has to wonder again, what exactly happened on that island to cause that reaction from Castle.

They settle in, quiet for a minute or so, when Kate pulls away.

"Castle, I think I missed you by – literally – just a few minutes."

"What do you mean?" he asks, confused.

"On the island," she begins. "We found you. I found you. I had a pilot flying me over the islands, when we saw the compound. It matched what we expected to see, from the videos we had received. But we knew we couldn't land there – not in the small plane we were in. So we went back to the main airport -"

"On Tangier Island?" he asks. "How did you find me?"

"Long story – for a later time. But yes, on Tangier Island. We picked up a chopper there. But by the time we got back – and it couldn't have been more than an hour – you were gone. I think we missed you by just minutes, Rick. It looked like all hell had broken loose there," she continues. "We landed, and searched the area for you –"

"Did you get my letters?" he asks suddenly, watching her reaction closely.

"Yes, I got them," she says softly, her eyes misting once more. "Every one of them."

"I meant every word," he says quietly, then leaning back, closing his eyes and smiling. For another minute, neither says a word. She simply holds his hand, relishing simply being with him once again when the door swings open and Alexis runs in, dashing toward her father. Kate cannot stop her in time as the young woman buries herself in her father, too late hearing the grunt of pain, too late feeling him stiffen underneath her. She pulls back quickly, her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with regret.

"Daddy?"

"I'm okay, pumpkin," he manages between wincing breaths. "Just a little burned . . ."

"And a gunshot wound," Kate adds, her eyes sympathetic to the young daughter who is now taking steps backward until she stumbles into Martha Rodgers, who was close behind.

"Alexis . . . come back," Castle says with great effort. "I need to see my girls. Mother?

Both women slowly make their way to Castle as he extends his arms – as much as his injured shoulder and IV-embedded hand will allow. It's a tearful reunion that Kate happily joins. In the doorway to his room stands a janitor pulling his mop and pail, filled with soap water, making his rounds. His silver hair is slicked back, and he has been whistling his favorite song along the floor, from room to room. He watches the family re-gathering, smiling to himself. Satisfied that his son is now in good hands, he begins to step away when Castle begins to speak.

"Richard," Martha begins, "we were so worried. What in the world happened to you?"

"I was taken, Mother. Kidnapped. But I'm okay now."

"Do you know who did this?" Alexis adds, now repeating the questions Kate has already asked.

"No, pumpkin, I don't," he replies. "I was lucky – they wanted to keep me alive. I had a little food, a lot of water, and even some medicines." He considers his words, reliving the past two weeks before adding, "Some others weren't so lucky."

"What do you mean, Rick?" Kate asks. This is new territory, new information that he hasn't shared with her.

"The lions," he says softly.

"What about them?" Kate asks, suppressing a chill that runs through her.

"They were . . . they fed them."

"And?" she comments, the horrific truth not yet sinking in.

"People," he tells her. "They fed them live people."

All three women visibly draw back, stunned into silence by Castle's words, and by the simple description of what he has witnessed. Jackson Hunt walks into the restroom, pretending to perform janitorial duties, but listening intently.

"I am free," Castle smiles wistfully. "I am the lucky one. I was taken, yes, but I get to go home. I get to be greeted by those I love, by those who love me," he smiles sadly, pulling the three women back into him. He gathers his breath, caught once again by the pain of happy embraces.

"But there are missing persons tonight – their families will never know what happened to them. Their families will never know that they are dead, that they died in the most horrible manner . . . eaten alive. I don't even know their names, so they will remain missing forever. No closure for those families. Forever wondering."

Kate bites her lower lip, literally, fighting to keep her emotions in check. There are no coincidences, and she is fairly certain she knows who is responsible for Castle's abduction. She has no proof, but she doesn't need proof. Not for what she is thinking. But she holds such thoughts away, for now. Tonight is not the night for that discussion. There will be time for that later. There will be time for revenge. And despite her official position, despite her beliefs, despite everything she has done and become . . . she will have her revenge.

They both will.

_**Epilogue 1 – Four nights later at Richard Castle's Loft in New York City, 11:47 p.m.**_

"No!" Richard Castle screams. He wakes up from his dream, sweat coating his back, and grimacing, holding on to his wounded shoulder. Kate jumps upward as well, startled by the outbreak, and touching his good arm lightly, but firmly.

"I'm here, babe," she tells him softly. "I'm here. It's just a dream."

His nightmares – this is the second consecutive night since his return from the Norfolk area – are not of his capture, or his bondage for two weeks. No, his dreams are of his deliverance, of his escape. He stares down at his hands, and she knows the thoughts settling upon him right now. These hands have blood on them now. These hands used to write, they used to create adventure. These hands used to bring joy and excitement and bright smiles to millions of faces. Now they have brought death in the most violent manner. He stares at them, weeping openly.

The surprised face of the man he never met before, his wide eyes stare back at him as his blood sprays wildly from the slashes Castle delivers. The man at the cabin grunts and cries out as Castle batters him again . . . and again . . . and again, mercilessly pummeling the man until he hears no more screams, no more cries.

No, these are no longer a writer's hands.

"I am a monster," he struggles, as Kate tries desperately to soothe the man she will shortly marry.

"No, Rick," she corrects him, then again more forcefully. "No – you are not. You are wonderful, loving man who fought to return to his family. Nothing more, babe. Nothing more."

She watches him as he gazes at his hands, his eyes sporting a wild look, and far, far away. She knows he is going to need counseling – and soon. This is beyond her. All she can do is support him, and love him. And hold him. She rocks back and forth with him, pulling him down to her, pulling him down to the pillows.

"I love you, Rick," she says softly. "You are home."

_**Epilogue 2: About that same time, just over 4 miles from the mainland, over the Atlantic Ocean**_

"Tell me, Daniels, why did you do it?"

The helicopter is doing a slow circle over the waters, banking gently. Jackson Hunt stares at the District Attorney, whose eyes show the fear of one who knows his time is short. He knew there were dangers in aligning with the Brackens, but it never, ever occurred to him that those the Brackens were at war with could ever resort to violence . . . to murder. He realizes only now the fatality of that miscalculation.

"I was there, in the courtroom, Daniels," Jackson Hunt continues. "I know you were in Bracken's pocket. I know there is no way, Mr. District Attorney, that you are as inept as you appeared. How did they get to you? You have no children. Your parents are both dead. Your wife? Did they get to her?"

"No," the District Attorney laments softly. "It was just . . . we needed the money."

"How much?" Hunt asks him.

"$500,000," Daniels tells him.

'Blood money," Hunt says calmly.

"Blood money? No," Daniels counters, knowing full well he is arguing the case of a lifetime – his lifetime. "Sure, a man was kidnapped, but he is free now, and –"

"When did you become aware that they took Richard Castle?" Hunt asks.

"About a week ago," Daniels replies quickly, not holding anything back. "When she told me. She told me that he wouldn't be harmed. She was going to let him go as soon as Bracken was free."

"And what if he wasn't freed?" Hunt counters.

"There was no chance of that happening," Daniels responds, laughing without humor. "No chance of that at all. That was my job – to make sure of that."

"That's right," Hunt agrees. "You didn't have to admit the video. You could have withheld that – allowed it to come out in trial. At least it would have gone to trial then."

"But he is free _now_," Daniels argues.

He is free only because he escaped, Mr. Daniels," Hunt argues calmly. "Not because of anything you did – or didn't do, I should say."

"Please don't do this," Daniels pleads. "No one was killed. No one died. No one –"

"Actually, there were quite a few deaths, Mr. Daniels," Hunt tells him. "And a part of my son died on that island."

"Your _son_?" Daniels asks, his eyes widening, fear gripping his heart as he only now begins to understand the magnitude of his miscalculation.

"Yes, my son. Richard Castle."

"Oh no, please," Daniels cries softly, now knowing that all is indeed, lost.

Hunt glances back at Retired Major Terrance Cooper, who is piloting the chopper for tonight's . . . little talk.

"Are we here?" Hunt asks him, only now noticing the circling pattern they have been flying for the past few minutes.

"Affirmative," Cooper replies quickly and professionally. "4.3 miles away from the mainland."

"4.3 miles from the mainland," Jackson Hunt repeats, now returning his gaze to the District Attorney. "Exactly the same number of miles my son was found from land out in the middle of the bay," he continues, now opening the door, the cool wind blasting inside without warning.

"You have the same chance my son had," Hunt continues. "Hopefully nothing down there is very hungry. And don't you worry, Mr. District Attorney. I will be visiting the Bracken's soon enough."

"Please," Daniels tries one last time. "My wife . . ."

"Your wife is a half million dollars richer after tonight," Hunt tells him, as he tosses a life preserver out the door, then pulls out a pistol with a silencer and shoots District Attorney Walter Daniels in the right shoulder. The man screams as Hunt then gives him a quick shove out the door, watching him fall into the Atlantic some twenty five feet below.

"Let's get out of here, Terrence," Hunt tells him as he closes the door.

"Affirmative," Major Cooper replies, banking and lifting the chopper once again, as they head back to the mainland off in the distance.

**A/N:** Once again, thanks for all who read and reviewed this story. As many of you know, I just enjoy coming up with alternate takes on different parts of canon. Such a rich group of characters they have given us, and I'm looking forward to where they take our favorites next fall. Good summer to everyone.


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